The Rise of Nagash

by Mike Lee

  Rakh-amn-hotep’s hearing had grown as sharp as a bat’s since his injury. He could tell that the voices were moving, heading deeper into the house. After a few moments it became clear that they were, in fact, coming his way. His gaze fell upon the room’s single wooden door.

  The assembled priests climbed nervously to their feet as footfalls sounded in the corridor beyond. The door latch rattled, and Ekhreb stepped swiftly inside. The champion was still covered in white dust from the road, and there was an agitated expression on his handsome face. Ignoring the startled looks from the priests, he approached the king and bowed.

  “Nebunefer is here, with a delegation from the Hieratic Council at Mahrak,” he said gravely. “They wish to see you.”

  The two men locked eyes. It was a shameful thing for a man to be seen in such a crippled state, much less a king. Ekhreb looked willing and ready to send the delegates back to Mahrak if the king so wished.

  After a moment, Rakh-amn-hotep drew a deep breath, and let out a single grunt: Yes.

  Ekhreb bowed his head once more, and returned to the doorway.

  “The Priest King of Rasetra welcomes you,” he said into the darkness.

  The priests in the room bowed their heads and withdrew quickly to the edges of the room, and then sank to their knees as Nebunefer strode through the doorway. The aged priest had dispensed with his dust-stained robes, and wore the golden vestments of a high priest of Ptra. Behind him came four cloaked and hooded figures, their features completely hidden in layers of gauzy cotton.

  The delegation approached the king’s side and bowed deeply. Nebunefer raised his hands.

  “The blessings of Ptra the Glorious be upon you, great one,” the priest intoned. “Your name is spoken with reverence in the temples of the great city, where it rises like pleasing music to fill the ears of the gods.” Nebunefer turned and indicated the hooded figures with a sweep of his hand. “The Hieratic Council has been informed of your heroic deeds, great king,” the priest said gravely, “and they wish to give you this gift as a token of their gratitude.”

  Nebunefer bowed once more and stepped aside. As one, the figures reached up and drew back their hoods. Several of the priests in the room gasped in surprise.

  Rakh-amn-hotep found himself staring up at four identical golden masks, each one shaped by a master craftsman to capture the essence of a goddess. They were breathtaking in their perfection, from their almond-shaped eyes to the sleek curves of their cheeks and the promise of their full lips. The hammered gold glowed under the lamplight, and in the shifting shadows it seemed as though the masks smiled lovingly down upon the king. Black shadows pooled at the base of the priestesses’ long, pale throats. Each young woman wore a necklace of black asps to guard her virtue and show her devotion to the goddess Asaph.

  The priestesses gathered around the king’s head and stretched forth pale hands decorated in sinuous henna tattoos. Rakh-amn-hotep felt their cool touch as they peeled away his bandages and brushed lightly at his face. Then they laid their hands upon his wound and in a single voice they began to chant.

  The incantation was a long and arduous one, requiring a combination of timing, finesse and power. The priestesses’ hands wove a delicate web around the king’s wound, teasing the bronze arrowhead away from Rakh-amn-hotep’s spine and knitting the flesh together in its wake. By the time they were done the oil lamps had burnt out and bright morning sunlight was slanting into the room from the corridor beyond.

  Three of the priestesses drew up their hoods and withdrew to the doorway. The fourth studied the king in silence for a moment, and then bent towards him until her perfect golden mask was scant inches from his face. The flickering tongues of asps tickled the king’s chin.

  Large, dark eyes looked into the king’s. The priestess exhaled, and Rakh-amn-hotep could somehow feel it through the mask, as though it had slipped past the goddess’ rounded lips. Her breath was warm and soft, and smelled of vanilla.

  “Rise,” the priestess whispered. “Rise, and give glory to Asaph.”

  With that, the priestess withdrew, drawing her hood up over her head and slipping silently from the room with her retinue at her back.

  Rakh-amn-hotep watched them go. He breathed deeply. A faint tremor passed through his body. His fingers twitched. Then slowly, painfully, the king pushed himself upright. He swung his legs over the edge of the palanquin and took another deep, racking breath. Then he pressed his hands to his face.

  “Glory be to Asaph,” he said in a ragged voice.

  “Glory be to Asaph,” Ekhreb echoed solemnly. Nebunefer smiled.

  “I am glad to see you well, great king. Given all you and your people have done in the long war against the Usurper, this was the least that we could do.” The Rasetran king lowered his hands and gave the priest a forbidding stare.

  “About damn time,” he growled. Nebunefer’s smile faded.

  “Excuse me?”

  “There are perhaps a thousand men between here and the Fountains of Life whose bones are bleaching in the sun because our healers could not save them,” the king said. “Where were the priestesses of Asaph then?” With a grunt, the king levered himself to his feet. “Where were the priests of Mahrak when a plague of madness was raging through Quatar? We have marched and fought and bled for your sake, Nebunefer. Nagash is nearly upon your doorstep, and it’s past time for you and your holy men to join the fight.”

  The old priest bristled at the king’s tone.

  “We have opened our coffers to you and Hekhmenukep,” he snapped. “We paid for your armies twice over!”

  “You can keep your damned gold!” Rakh-amn-hotep shot back. “We would have fought that monster even had it beggared us!” The king took a step towards the old man, his anger rising. Then he caught himself. With an effort, he took a deep breath and continued. “You marched with us, Nebunefer. You were at Quatar. You’ve seen the bodies. Tens of thousands of dead men… Even if we win, our cities may never be the same again. If the Hieratic Council had been with us in the west—”

  “It isn’t as simple as that, great one,” Nebunefer said.

  “I’ve heard the stories of the battle at Zedri,” Rakh-amn-hotep said. “I know that Nagash’s defilement of Neferem has given him the power to negate your invocations, but by the gods! The things that your priests might have done to sustain us, far from the battle line…”

  “You know far less than you imagine,” Nebunefer hissed. He started to say more, and then paused. The old priest stared hard at the holy men ringing the room. “Leave us,” he commanded.

  When the priests were gone, Nebunefer glanced warily at Ekhreb, but Rakh-amn-hotep folded his arms stubbornly, and said, “He deserves to hear this as much as I do, perhaps more so.” Nebunefer frowned, but finally he shrugged his bony shoulders.

  “Very well,” he said with a sigh. “Do you know why Neferem renders our invocations powerless?”

  The Rasetran king considered the question, and then answered, “Because she represents the covenant between the gods and men, which is why Settra coerced the Hieratic Council into allowing his marriage to the Daughter of the Sun, hundreds of years ago. He sought to bind the sacred covenant governing all of Nehekhara with his household, and to prevent the council at Mahrak from ever turning their powers against him.”

  “But,” Nebunefer said with a raised finger, “the great king didn’t fully appreciate the significance of his marriage. The Daughter of the Sun does not represent the sacred covenant, she is the covenant made flesh.”

  Rakh-amn-hotep scowled at the priest, and asked, “Why would the gods do such a thing?” Nebunefer smiled faintly.

  “As a sign of faith,” he replied. “Faith that our ancestors would honour their promise to give offerings and worship to the gods.” The king nodded thoughtfully.

  “And Nagash has claimed this covenant for his own. Gods above, he’s a usurper in more ways than one.”

  Nebunefer shook his head ruefully, and said, “For all his
vaunted intelligence, Nagash doesn’t seem to fully appreciate what he’s done. If he wished, he could command the powers of the gods, in exchange for sacrifice and worship. As terrible as things have been, but for the Usurper’s arrogance it could have been far worse.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Rakh-amn-hotep growled. “Since Neferem represents the covenant, she is the conduit for the gods’ power. But such things work both ways.”

  The old priest nodded. “Our offerings do not reach the gods, nor do their gifts bless us in return,” he said. “Nagash has cut us off from our power, great one. We have not acted until now because we cannot.”

  The king’s hand strayed to his throat. “But what the priestesses just did…” he began.

  Nebunefer sighed. “A lifetime’s devotion to the gods transforms us. Our souls become charged with the power of the divine. Now, that is all we have left.” He nodded towards the door. “Those four priestesses gave up part of their souls so that you could walk again.”

  “Great gods,” Rakh-amn-hotep whispered. “How are we to stop this monster? His army will be here an hour after sunset. We must hold him at the Gates of the Dusk.”

  “We cannot hold Nagash here,” Nebunefer said. “The gates are poorly fortified, and your armies have been badly mauled already.”

  “My men don’t lack for courage,” the Rasetran king growled, “especially now that the beast is breathing at their door.” Nebunefer chuckled.

  “After all that your warriors have done, no one will ever question their courage,” he said, “but if they remain here they will be overrun by dawn. Ask your man here if you don’t believe me.”

  The king looked to his champion. Ekhreb scowled, but nodded reluctantly.

  “He’s right, great one,” he said, “Those walls weren’t built high enough or broad enough to stop a determined army, and the men have nothing left to give. They will fight if you give the order, but they won’t last for long.”

  “What would you have us do, then?” Rakh-amn-hotep asked the priest with a sigh.

  “Withdraw,” Nebunefer replied. “Return to your cities and rebuild your armies.”

  “And what about Nagash?”

  “Nagash means to conquer Mahrak,” the old priest said. “He has dreamt of humbling us for a very long time, and now he has the chance.” He faced the king. “You are right, great one. The time has come for us to pay our tithe of blood. We will fight the Usurper at the City of Hope until you and Hekhmenukep can return and break the siege.”

  “That could take years, Nebunefer,” the king replied. “You just said yourself that the Hieratic Council is powerless.” Another faint smile crossed Nebunefer’s face.

  “I never said the word powerless, great one. We still have our Ushabti, and the city is protected by wards that even Nagash would be hard-pressed to break. Fear not. We will hold out for as long as we must.”

  Rakh-amn-hotep began to pace around the dimly lit chamber. His knees felt weak, but after he’d learned what had been done to restore his limbs, he didn’t think he’d ever sit down again.

  “What of Lahmia?” he said. “Those libertines have done nothing, even when Nagash took their royal daughter and slew her son. How long do they think they can sit by and watch Nehekhara burn?”

  “We have sent emissaries to Lahmia many times,” Nebunefer said. “So long as Neferem is tied to the Usurper, they refuse to act.” The king chuckled bitterly.

  “For me, that would be more than enough reason to act.” He glanced at Ekhreb. “What is the hour?”

  “An hour before noon, great one.”

  Rakh-amn-hotep sighed. There was much to do, and little time.

  “I want our forces on the march by mid-afternoon,” he told his champion. Ekhreb managed a grin.

  “Another long march,” he said. “The men will start to regret all those prayers for your swift recovery.”

  “No doubt,” the king said, “but at least this time they’ll be heading home.” Rakh-amn-hotep turned to Nebunefer. “Any supplies you could give us—”

  “They are on the way here even now,” the priest interrupted. “You can take the wagons, as well. We’ll expert you to return them in due time.”

  The king nodded to Ekhreb, who bowed low and hastened from the room. Moments later he could be heard barking orders to the captains waiting in the common room.

  Nebunefer bowed low to Rakh-amn-hotep.

  “With your permission, great one, I must depart,” he said. “There is much to be done in Mahrak before the Usurper’s army arrives.” The king nodded, but his expression turned grave.

  “I cannot speak for Lybaras, but I and my people will not abandon you. That said, I can’t guarantee when we will return. You may have to endure for a very long time.”

  Nebunefer smiled, and said, “With the gods, all things are possible. Until we meet again, Rakh-amn-hotep. In this life, or the next.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Undying King

  Khemri, the Living City, in the 62nd year of Qu’aph the Cunning

  (-1750 Imperial Reckoning)

  The evening air blowing through the open entryway of Settra’s Court was pungent with the reek of cinders and scorched flesh. Faint shouts and terrified screams sounded in the distance. Khemri, the Living City, was on fire.

  “Explain this,” Nagash said to his immortals. His cold voice echoed faintly in the cavernous space. “This is the third night in a row that there have been riots in the Merchant Quarter.”

  The black-robed noblemen, a hundred in all, shifted uneasily around the darkened court and stole wary glances at one another. Finally, Raamket stepped forwards and ventured a reply.

  “It’s the same as always,” he grunted. “The harvest was poor. Trade has suffered. They crowd together in the marketplace like sheep and bleat the same things, over and over again. When darkness falls, they grow bold enough to cause trouble.” The nobleman shrugged. “We kill the rabble-rousers when we catch them, but the rest of the herd never seems to get the message.”

  “Then perhaps you’re being too selective,” the king snapped. He leaned forwards on his throne and glared down at Raamket. “Send your men through the quarter and kill every man, woman and child you find. Better yet, impale them on spikes around the city wells, so that every matron who has to come to draw water can listen to their cries of agony. Order must be restored. Do you understand? Kill however many you must to put an end to this disgraceful unrest.”

  Arkhan the Black stood at Nagash’s right hand, close by the dais. He took a long drink from the goblet in his hand and stared into its depths.

  “Killing that many people will be counterproductive,” he said grimly. “Our labour pool is small enough as it is, to say nothing of the city watch or the army. Every citizen we put to death only places more strain on those who survive.”

  The emptiness of Settra’s Court attested to the vizier’s observation. Where the hall was once packed with obsequious nobles and scheming ambassadors, now only the king and his immortals remained, along with a handful of slaves and Nagash’s silent queen. One way or another, the Black Pyramid had consumed everyone else.

  It had been an epic labour, far in excess of the king’s worst predictions. Quarrying the marble and transporting it alone had occupied tens of thousands of workers and required expert stonesmiths to properly select and shape the massive ebon blocks. Accidents and misfortune took their toll, both at the quarry and at the construction site: a cable snapped, or tired labourers grew inattentive, and men died in shrieking agony beneath tons of black marble. In the first ten years, Nagash had used up half the slaves he’d taken from Zandri, and more continued to die every day.

  Nevertheless, the work went on. When setbacks occurred, Nagash ordered his taskmasters to work deep into the night. The city watch sent a steady stream of gamblers, drunkards and thieves to the slave camps outside the necropolis to try to stem the growing tide of casualties. When the criminals ran out, they sent anyone they caught on
the streets after dark. The great cities also continued to send their monthly tithes to Khemri, buying peace with the Usurper with a steady flow of blood and coin.

  Still, it wasn’t enough. Construction fell behind schedule, year upon year. No one in Khemri believed that the structure would be completed in Nagash’s lifetime. Years passed, but the King of the Living City did not seem to feel the passage of time, and neither did the king’s chosen vassals, whose power and wealth in the city increased with each succeeding decade. Rumours were whispered among the lesser nobles of the court: had Nagash unravelled the deepest mysteries of the Mortuary Cult? Had he been blessed by the gods to lead Nehekhara to a new golden age?

  Then Neferem began appearing at the king’s side during his Grand Assemblies, seated upon the lesser throne and assuming the duties of a queen, and the rumours took a much darker turn.

  As the years passed and the number of deaths continued to mount, the annual civil service for Khemri’s citizens was extended from a month to six months, and then up to eight. Fields outside the city grew fallow for want of farmers, and Khemri began to spend a great deal of gold importing more grain from the north. Trade suffered for want of craftsmen and artisans, and prices increased. Khemri’s new golden age lost its lustre quickly.

  Lahmia was the first of the great cities to withdraw its ambassadors and renege on its monthly tithe. Others followed quickly: Lybaras, then Rasetra, Quatar and Ka-Sabar. They had calculated that Khemri didn’t have enough population left to raise a proper army to enforce their claims, and they were right. The king vowed that work on the pyramid would continue, regardless of the cost. Nagash modified the civil service decree once more, so that every father and eldest son in every household in the city, common or noble, would serve continuously until the massive edifice was complete.