The Rise of Nagash

by Mike Lee

  Nagash wanted a final reckoning with the council and he would have it, regardless of the cost. Nebunefer hoped the price would be more than the Usurper could afford to pay, not that such a thing would stop him.

  A hot wind gusted over the battlements, full of grit and the musty smell of the grave. A thin line of warriors stood along the walls, awaiting the arrival of the foe. Mahrak had never needed an army before, and even as the Usurper grew in power at Khemri, the Hieratic Council refused to consider raising one. That would have been tantamount to admitting that Nagash’s power exceeded that of the gods. Each temple did have its own corps of Ushabti, however, and there were no finer warriors in all of the Blessed Land.

  The devoted were the paladins of the gods, men who dedicated their lives to serving their deity and protecting the faithful from harm. In return for their devotion the gods gave them wondrous and terrible gifts, in proportion to the strength of each Ushabti’s faith and the worthiness of his deeds. In other Nehekharan cities the Ushabti guarded the priest king, who was a living embodiment of their god’s will, but in Mahrak the devoted guarded the temples and the persons of the Hieratic Council, who by virtue of their station were second only to the gods.

  In distant Ka-Sabar the Ushabti of Geheb were tawny-skinned giants with leonine fangs and lambent eyes; in Mahrak, however, Geheb’s devoted were transformed into towering, manlike lions, with a desert cat’s fearsome strength and speed and hands tipped in deadly claws. The devoted of Djaf had the heads of ebon jackals and the cold touch of death in their fingertips. Ptra’s Ushabti were golden-skinned titans too beautiful and terrible to look upon. Their voices had the pure tone of trumpets, and their hands could shatter swords.

  By ancient tradition each temple mustered no more than two score and ten of these holy warriors, and they gathered along the wall in all their glory: six hundred holy warriors against Nagash’s thousands.

  As mighty as Mahrak’s Ushabti were, they were not the city’s only defences. Vast and ageless powers had been woven into the city’s walls and foundations: spirits of the desert and divine servants of the gods, who stirred awake at the approach of Nagash’s horde. These guardians were not bound by the covenant, at least not in any direct sense, and thus they could not be turned aside by the will of the Daughter of the Sun. The Usurper was about to learn that the gods, though bound, were still far from helpless.

  A stir went through the ranks of the devoted along the battlements to Nebunefer’s right. The old priest turned and caught sight of three imperious figures clothed in vestments of yellow, brown and black advancing down the length of the wall towards him. Nebunefer bowed deeply at the approach of his master, Nekh-amn-aten, Hierophant of the great Ptra. Flanking the high priest were Atep-neru, the inscrutable Hierophant of Djaf, and the scowling, belligerent Khansu, Hierophant of Khsar the Faceless.

  “This is an unexpected honour, holy ones,” Nebunefer said. “No doubt the devoted will draw inspiration and courage from your presence.”

  Nekh-amn-aten waved the priest to silence with an irritable hand gesture.

  “Spare us the platitudes,” the hierophant growled. “All that time spent among kings has thoroughly corrupted you, Nebunefer. I’ve never heard such simpering drivel in my life.”

  Nebunefer spread his wrinkled hands and smiled ruefully. The hierophant had been born in Mahrak, and had never once gone abroad. As far as the old priest knew, this was the first time Nekh-amn-aten had set foot on the city wall.

  “No doubt you are right, holy one,” he said diplomatically. “The courts of our allies are rife with all manner of ease and comfort, certainly nothing like the stern life we enjoy here.”

  Khansu glowered at Nebunefer’s impertinent tone, but Nekh-amn-aten seemed not to hear. Tucking his hands in the sleeves of his heavy cotton vestments, the hierophant stepped to the edge of the battlements and stared out at the roiling clouds that bruised the western horizon.

  “I never should have let you talk me into this,” he said sourly. “We ought to have kept our allies close by and let Nagash focus his attentions on them.”

  “To what end, holy one?” the old priest asked with a sigh. “The armies of Rasetra and Lybaras have fought like lions, but their strength is spent. If they had remained, as Rakh-amn-hotep was determined to do, we would be standing here witnessing their slaughter.”

  Nekh-amn-aten grunted irritably, and said, “And Nagash would have spent much of his army’s strength destroying them, perhaps leaving him too weak to challenge us.”

  The anger Nebunefer felt at the hierophant’s callousness, surprised him. Perhaps he had spent too much time among the priest kings after all.

  “The advantage is ours, holy one,” he said forcefully. “We will let the Usurper break his teeth against our walls, while our allies rebuild their armies and return to finish what they have begun.” Atep-neru turned to Nebunefer.

  “How long will that be, priest?” he asked in a sepulchral voice. “Two months? Ten? A year, perhaps?”

  Khansu growled irritably, and said, “A year? What foolishness. The campaigning season is nearly done. Once Nagash sees he cannot breach our defences he will make for Lybaras, or perhaps withdraw to Quatar.”

  Nebunefer took a deep breath and fought to conceal his irritation. How many times must he repeat himself?

  “What does Nagash care for seasons of war?” he asked. “His warriors are not needed back in Khemri to gather in the harvest.” The old priest shrugged. “His miserable subjects can all starve to death for all he cares. Indeed, in death they would become more useful to him still. No, he will remain here, on this side of the Valley of Kings, until all the eastern cities have burnt or bowed before him. And make no mistake, he will start his campaign here. He knows we have sent Rasetra and Lybaras against him, and may even suspect that we were behind the attack on Bel Aliad. If he conquers Mahrak, the war could end in a single stroke. Mark my words, he will attack us with everything he possesses, and if he cannot overcome our defences we could be facing a long and protracted siege.”

  Nekh-amn-aten clasped his hands behind his back, still staring out at the spreading clouds.

  “How long can the city withstand such a siege?” he asked. Atep-neru tapped a long finger against his chin.

  “We will not lack for water,” he said. “Our cisterns are full, and the Sundered Stone remains a wellspring for the faithful. If we ration the supplies in the storehouses, we could last for three years if we had to.”

  Nekh-amn-aten turned to Nebunefer. “Three years,” he echoed, his expression darkening. “Do you think it will come to that?” The old priest thought back to the last time he spoke to the Rasetran king. You may have to endure a very long time. Nebunefer met his master’s worried gaze.

  “Only the gods can say,” he replied.

  The armies of the Undying King reached the holy city just a few hours past nightfall, pouring over the dunes in a hissing tide of dry leather and dusty bones. The ranks of the undead had swelled dramatically over the course of the relentless march through the valley. Skeletal archers from Zandri formed skirmish lines ahead of the clattering spearmen, and bony Numasi horsemen paced silently behind the tireless battleline, escorting Nagash’s immortal captains. Further back, towards the rear of the silent, rattling horde, other, more terrible creations lumbered across the sands, driven by the will of their implacable masters.

  When Nagash’s vast host had left Khemri for the Fountains of Eternal Life it had been comprised entirely of living, breathing men. Now, less than a quarter of that number remained. Packs of jackals loped in the army’s wake by night, and great flocks of carrion birds wheeled silently above them by day. The pickings for the scavengers were scarce, but the presence of so much death and decay nevertheless proved too great for them to ignore.

  A terrible, keening wind whistled through the undead ranks, plucking at frayed tatters of clothing and torn pieces of leather or parchment-like human skin. Its breath sucked veils of sand and dust into whirli
ng patterns that rose above the bleached skulls of the warriors and fed the roiling mantle of darkness that shrouded the host from the burning touch of the sun.

  The constant, howling dust storm forced the immortals and the living warriors of the army to march with their shoulders wrapped in capes with desert cowls drawn tightly around their faces. The men of Zandri and Numas were numbed and half-deafened by the constant roaring of the storm, and more than one horse had to be put down after the fine, swirling grit had put out their eyes. It had been the same for weeks on end as Nagash drove them along the dreadful valley in pursuit of the armies of the east.

  They had expected to find their foes holding onto the Gates of the Dusk in a last, desperate attempt to keep the Undying King at bay. For the last few days the army had been at a forced march, hoping to reach the end of the valley and catch their enemies unawares, but when the vanguard of skeletal horsemen reached the gates they’d found the low walls abandoned and the village beyond eerily silent. The immortal commanding the vanguard had angrily sent a messenger in search of a living Numasi horseman with enough of a brain to make sense of the tracks they’d found on the other side of the town. From what the exhausted cavalryman could tell, they had missed their foes by only a few hours. When Nagash received the news he ordered the army forwards in full battle array, expecting to catch the allied armies at the gates of Mahrak.

  At a silent command, the vast western host clattered to a halt just over a mile from the walls of the holy city. Nagash’s immortal captains reined in their mouldering horses and raised their heads, sensing the currents of power coiling restlessly through the sands ahead. Halfway between Mahrak and the invading army ran a shifting, tenebrous line of demarcation where Nagash’s veil of shadow pressed against the city’s ancient wards. Beyond that restless line of darkness the plains before the city were pale and gleaming beneath Neru’s silver light.

  The sky above Mahrak was a cobalt tapestry, woven with threads of glittering diamond. Watch-fires burned from great braziers atop the city walls, bathing sections of the battlements in pools of molten orange light. There was no mob of panicked soldiers snuggling to pass through Mahrak’s western gate, which puzzled the immortals. But for the potent energies encircling the city, Mahrak seemed surprisingly quiet.

  Hours passed while the rest of the army moved into position and messengers were sent from the vanguard to make their report to the Undying King. Once again, the weary Numasi riders were brought forwards, and still more hours passed before the riders established that the allied armies had circled around the city to the south and were withdrawing in the direction of their homes. As the news filtered down to the king’s immortals, many assumed that they would continue the pursuit, and shifted their tireless horsemen further down the battleline to the south.

  Nagash’s orders, when they were issued at around midnight, caught many of his captains by surprise. The Numasi horsemen were ordered to secure the army’s flank to the south-east and keep a watch on the allied armies’ retreat, and the reserve companies were brought forwards and arrayed behind the main battleline. Quartermasters and their slaves went to work pitching tents and creating corrals for their wagon horses a quarter of a mile behind the army, while armourers unpacked their portable forges and siege engineers went to work hauling their ponderous engines in the direction of the waiting city. Groaning wagons rolled along in their wake, laden with baskets of grinning skulls and casks of reeking pitch.

  The attack on the City of the Gods would begin in the hours just before dawn.

  Arkhan the Black paced through the predawn darkness, wishing for a horse.

  The hungry wind had eased considerably over the last half an hour, leaving his ears ringing and his nerves unsettled by the lack of sound and pressure. Much of the swirling dust had settled, and had he a mount he could have observed the army from one end of the battleline to the other, which was entirely the point. The captains would need the visibility to command their companies, and the siege engineers would need to observe the fall of their artillery during the march to the walls.

  More than eighty thousand corpses stood in tight ranks twenty deep, arrayed in a rough crescent formation that stretched for nearly three miles north to south. Another forty thousand spearmen waited in reserve, surrounding the firing positions of fifty heavy catapults. In between the main battleline and the reserves were squadrons of undead horsemen and their immortal captains, plus five thousand skeletal archers. The bowmen would march close behind the spear companies, raking the enemy battlements with a steady rain of arrows while the assault troops attacked the main gate. Only when the gate had fallen would the cavalry spring into action, charging through the gap to sow chaos and death across the City of Hope.

  Arkhan noted that none of the Undying King’s living allies would take part in the attack. The Numasi remained off to the south-east, ostensibly guarding the army’s flank from the withdrawing eastern forces. Zandri’s troops had been placed upon the northern flank and allowed to remain in camp until further orders.

  It was clear that Nagash did not trust his vassals, particularly where Mahrak was concerned. The vizier understood his master’s growing paranoia all too well.

  Since the debacle at Quatar, Arkhan hadn’t commanded so much as a scouting party. Indeed, the king had forbidden him to so much as wear his sword and armour during the long march. He was not even allowed to ride a horse. Short of ordering him to march naked behind the army’s baggage train, Nagash had subjected Arkhan to every possible humiliation. The vizier had come to suspect that the only reason he hadn’t been destroyed outright was so that he could serve as a constant reminder to the rest of Nagash’s captains.

  For a while, Arkhan had believed that the punishment would cease, eventually, and he would return to favour once again. Now, he wasn’t so sure, and he wondered what, if anything, he was going to do about it.

  The vizier strode down the length of the battleline behind the waiting horsemen, seeking one immortal in particular. Most of the pale figures he spotted threw a mocking salute or sneered in contempt. Arkhan kept his face neutral, but made a note of each and every slight. If I can fall, so can you, he thought, and when that happens, I’ll be waiting.

  Finally, near the centre of the line, he caught sight of the one he was seeking. Shepsu-hur was sitting in the saddle of his skeletal warhorse, his bronze helmet resting on the saddle between his thighs and his hands busy running a whetstone along the edge of a sharply pointed knife. He stiffened slightly and turned in the saddle, as though sensing the weight of Arkhan’s stare. Bits of dry linen flaked away from his burned limbs as he moved, and his ruined face cocked curiously to one side as he saw his former master. After a moment’s consideration the maimed champion sheathed his knife, brought his horse about and approached the vizier. Like most of Nagash’s immortals, Shepsu-hur no longer bothered using reins: a dead horse cared nothing for a bridle, being directed solely by the rider’s will.

  “Not long now,” Arkhan said by way of greeting as the immortal approached. Shepsu-hur nodded, his dry leather wrappings crackling and creaking as he moved.

  “I’m surprised you won’t be joining us,” he said in his ravaged voice. “I expected Nagash to return you to command in time for the assault. It’s foolish not to make use of your talents when so much is at stake.”

  The words of rough praise would have heartened a mortal, but Arkhan felt only resentment at his master for the obvious slight.

  “It’s been weeks,” he growled. “Nagash has forgotten me, I expect. I’m sure that Raamket or someone else began scheming to take my place the moment I fell out of favour.” Shepsu-hur nodded gravely.

  “Raamket’s the one, which I’m sure comes as no surprise. You did yourself no favours by keeping to that tower of yours for so many years.” The vizier nodded.

  “True enough,” he said. He eyed Shepsu-hur and wondered if the immortal had ever chafed under Nagash’s bond as he had. Was he the only one who had sought to free himself
from the master’s chains? Surely not.

  “How many allies do you think Raamket has among the court?” he asked. The champion shrugged, sending another shower of brittle cloth tumbling to the ground.

  “Not many, I expect. He was never that popular, especially in the beginning, but now that he has the master’s ear that will no doubt change.” Shepsu-hur studied Arkhan thoughtfully. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just considering my options,” Arkhan said carefully.

  Shepsu-hur nodded. As the immortal started to reply there was a shout from the rear of the army and a series of heavy thuds rumbled along the length of the battleline as the catapults went into action. Streaks of livid green light arced over the waiting spearmen as bundles of enchanted skulls plunged towards Mahrak’s walls.

  Horns boomed hollowly nearby, and Arkhan saw a flare of sorcerous fire a few score yards to his right. A phalanx of withered corpses bearing white-faced shields and great swords had appeared along the slope of a high dune at the rear of the waiting horsemen: the corpses of Quatar’s royal bodyguard, bound into Nagash’s service and bearing the flayed standard of their former king. The Undying King stood behind the ranks of the Tomb Guard, surrounded by his spectral retinue and attended closely by Raamket and a handful of slaves. Beside Nagash walked the broken figure of Neferem, her withered face twisted into a mask of silent grief.

  Arkhan felt the necromancer’s unspoken command buzzing in his brain like a swarm of ravening locusts. A stir went through the waiting horsemen. Shepsu-hur straightened in his saddle.

  “It begins,” he rasped, reaching for his helm. The immortal nodded to Arkhan before slipping the helmet onto his head.