The Rise of Nagash

by Mike Lee

  A distant rumble sounded from the direction of Mahrak, followed by the faint sound of screams. With a curse, Arkhan turned back to the plain and saw that the carnage had already begun.

  Three sphinxes reared above the panicked slaves, lashing out at the screaming men with huge, blood-slicked paws. Bodies spun through the air like straw dolls, split wide by the monsters’ talons. It looked as though half the slaves were already dead, and the rest were fleeing in panic back towards the shadow line.

  “Come on,” Arkhan murmured angrily. He studied the plain of bones around the fleeing slaves carefully. “Rise up, damn you!”

  One of the sphinxes seemed to leap lazily forwards among a knot of terrified slaves, crushing several beneath the weight of its paws and catching another in its fangs. The monster bit the slave in two, spat out the pieces, and then started to lunge for another victim, when suddenly the ground heaved around the struggling slaves and the sphinx jumped skywards like a startled cat.

  Massive, low-slung figures erupted from the earth on either side of the sphinx. Jagged pincers the size of a grown man snapped at the monster’s legs, and segmented tails made of gleaming bone stabbed at the creature’s flanks with stingers as long as swords. Three bone constructs, wrought in the shape of huge tomb scorpions, surrounded the desert spirit and stabbed its flanks again and again, eliciting terrible, human-like roars of rage and pain.

  The wounded sphinx retreated, dragging a paralysed hind leg and snapping defiantly at the scuttling constructs. The scorpions pressed forwards relentlessly, spreading out to attack the creature from three different directions at once. A sudden gust of wind across the plain kicked up a cloud of sand around the struggling figures and the sphinx’s pack mates attacked. The leonine monsters coalesced out of the swirling sands and leapt onto the scorpions, snapping at the constructs’ tails with their powerful jaws. Bone splintered and fragments were hurled into the air as the spirits savaged the constructs.

  Within seconds, the ill-fated ambush was over. The six monsters paced around the shattered constructs for a few moments more, and then they turned their backs on the fleeing slaves and withdrew into the churning clouds of sand. Their dusky hides merged with the swirling dust, and then disappeared from view.

  Arkhan studied the broken bodies of the scorpions and shook his head irritably. Six months of incantations and labour, all gone in moments. The vizier grimaced.

  “Well, we managed to hurt one of the beasts this time,” he muttered bitterly. “That’s progress, I suppose.” Amn-nasir grunted scornfully, which in turn triggered a fit of painful coughing.

  “Nagash has made a grave miscalculation,” the king finally said. “He has kept us here for years, while our cities slide into ruin and our enemies grow in strength. If we had marched on Rasetra and Lybaras at once, we would have ended this war in a month. But now—”

  “What?” Arkhan interrupted, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. The king hesitated.

  “Every man has a limit to what he can endure,” he said, his voice almost too faint for the immortal to hear. The vizier studied the king’s tormented face.

  “We either endure, or we perish,” he replied.

  “All men perish,” Amn-nasir said. “Sometimes a good death is preferable to a wretched life.” Arkhan shook his head.

  “You had your chance to rise up against Nagash many years ago, but you bowed your knee to him instead. Now it’s too late,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” the king said enigmatically, “and perhaps not.”

  “Stop playing children’s games,” Arkhan snapped. “Speak plainly, or not at all.”

  “As you wish,” Amn-nasir said. “The Priest King of Lahmia is on his way here, with an army at his back.” The vizier’s eyes widened.

  “Are you certain?” he asked, knowing how foolish he sounded even as the question passed his lips. Amn-nasir grinned again, enjoying Arkhan’s surprise.

  “My scouts spotted them yesterday. They will be here on the morrow,” he replied.

  The failed ambush was forgotten. Arkhan’s mind raced as he tried to grasp the implications of the Lahmians’ impending arrival.

  “An army,” he murmured. “Why? Is Lamashizzar coming to side with Nagash, or with the people of Mahrak?” Amn-nasir shrugged.

  “The Lahmians are famous opportunists. No doubt Lamashizzar senses that the balance of power is shifting, and seeks to exploit it for his own ends.”

  Arkhan considered this, before asking, “How large is the Lahmian army?”

  “Perhaps fifty or sixty thousand troops,” the king replied, “a mix of infantry and heavy cavalry, all clad in strange, outlandish armour.”

  The vizier shook his head. Nagash had more than twice that number camped outside Mahrak.

  “If Lamashizzar pits himself against the Undying King he will be destroyed,” he said.

  “If he fights alone, yes,” Amn-nasir said, nodding slowly.

  The immortal and the king stared at one another for a long, fraught moment.

  “Are the men of Numas contemplating revolt as well?” Arkhan asked quietly.

  “I do not speak for Numas,” Amn-nasir replied, his expression inscrutable. Arkhan stepped close to the king.

  “You’re a fool to tell me this,” he hissed. “Nagash would reward me well for such information.” Amn-nasir was unmoved by the threat.

  “Now who is playing children’s games?” he said. “Do you imagine that your master is capable of gratitude after all this time? Even if you whispered all I’ve said into Nagash’s ear and he somehow trusted you enough to act upon it, do you truly think it would change anything?”

  “Why talk to me at all?” the vizier snarled. “You’re right. I have no influence or power any more. The king sets me to menial tasks when it pleases him, and provides me only enough sustenance to eke out a weak, miserable existence.” He thought to say more, but shame held his tongue. For years he had been given little more than drops of the master’s precious elixir, leaving him in constant torment. In desperation, he had taken to supplementing his meagre sustenance with the blood of animals. The bitter blood of horses, jackals, even vultures, partially lessened his terrible thirst, but did nothing to restore his vitality.

  More than once over the last few years, Arkhan had contemplated disappearing into the desert and making his way back to Khemri. He knew where Nagash’s arcane tomes were hidden, deep within the Black Pyramid, and somewhere in their pages were the formulas for creating the dreadful elixir. Those formulas would free him from Nagash’s clutches forever, but the long, burning leagues between Mahrak and the Living City daunted him in his weakened state.

  “You know more about Nagash and his powers than anyone,” Amn-nasir said, “and you have every reason to desire his downfall. This is your chance, possibly your only chance, to be free of him. If you went to Lamashizzar and offered to share Nagash’s secrets, it might be enough to sway him.” Arkhan frowned.

  “Sway him?” The vizier felt his anger returning. “All this bold talk of revolt is a fantasy, isn’t it? You haven’t spoken to Lamashizzar at all. For all you know, the Lahmians think Mahrak is on the verge of collapse and they’re coming here to curry Nagash’s favour. You want to use me as your stalking horse, stirring up the notion of rebellion and gauging Lamashizzar’s reaction before you risk your own skin.”

  For the first time, Amn-nasir’s bleary eyes widened in anger.

  “Think what you like, vizier,” he said coldly. “I never claimed to know Lamashizzar’s mind. But that doesn’t change any part of what I’ve said to you.” The king reached up with his palsied hands and pulled up his desert hood.

  “You and I know better than anyone what Nehekhara will become if Nagash triumphs,” Amn-nasir said. “Mahrak cannot endure much longer, and no doubt Lamashizzar senses this. When that happens, darkness will spread across the east, and the Undying King will become the lord of a dead land. We stand upon the brink, Arkhan. This is our last chance to draw back from the brink of ru
in.”

  Arkhan did not reply at first. He stared out onto the bone-covered plain, and thought of Bel Aliad, and Bhagar, and even of Khemri.

  “Lord of a dead land,” he murmured. He took a deep breath. “I must think on this, great one. You say that Lamashizzar will arrive tomorrow?” The vizier glanced back at the king, but Amn-nasir was gone, already climbing back onto the saddle of his sickly mare. Arkhan watched the king go, and contemplated the future.

  A dozen leagues south-east of Mahrak ran a broken range of flat-topped hills, separated by narrow, steep-walled canyons and treacherous gullies. For centuries the terrain had been a haven for eastern bandits, until Nagash’s father Khetep had ruthlessly cleansed it on his southern campaigns, more than two hundred years ago. Many of the steep hills were honeycombed with caves, some containing hidden wells and supply caches built by bandit gangs. A clever general could hide an army in that rugged landscape, which is exactly what Rakh-amn-hotep had done.

  It had taken more than three months to move the companies of warriors into position. They moved by night to conceal the dust of their march and burned no fires save for a handful of meagre ovens set deep in the back of the hill caves. First the cavalry arrived, establishing a picket to keep Numasi scouts at bay and standing guard over the caches of supplies transferred by swift-moving wagon teams sent ahead of the infantry companies. By the time the Rasetran king arrived at the sprawling encampment, more than forty thousand warriors had been assembled, awaiting the call to battle. In the weeks that followed, another twenty thousand troops had arrived, bringing the army to nearly its full size.

  The host was but a pale shadow of the proud force that had marched upon Khemri four and a half years ago. There were no lizardmen from the deep jungle and their massive beasts of war, nor were there squadrons of swift chariots drawn by hissing, saw-toothed reptiles. Every horse in Rasetra had been pressed into service, and every old veteran and callow youth had been armed and cased in heavy scales and fed into the crucible of war. This was the seed corn of his people. If this last campaign failed it would mean the end of his city. No one would be left to work the mills, or the smithies, or keep the market square going. Within a generation the jungle would claim Rasetra once more.

  Rakh-amn-hotep reckoned that the same could be said of Lybaras. The warriors of the scholar-city had been arriving for the last month, and there was no mistaking the old men and clumsy young scribes filling the ranks of their spear companies. He imagined the huge libraries and schools of engineering and philosophy echoing and empty. The great war machines and wondrous sky-boats of Lybaras were no more, and would perhaps never be seen again.

  A gentle wind was blowing off the mountains to the west and Neru was high and bright in the sky as the Rasetran king stood atop a low ridge and watched for the army’s last expected arrivals. His Ushabti stood close by, wrapped in desert robes and hoods to conceal their divine gifts. A pair of scribes crouched at the base of a large boulder, comparing supply lists and making notations on wax tablets with dull copper styluses. Ekhreb stood to one side of the scribes, studying their notations carefully, and then went to the king’s side. He nodded his head to Rakh-amn-hotep and the tall, slender figure standing at the king’s right.

  “All is in readiness,” the champion said quietly. “The companies have drawn their supplies for the march, and will be ready to move at first light.” Rakh-amn-hotep nodded gravely.

  “The picket is secure?” he asked. Ekhreb nodded.

  “The Numasi haven’t been patrolling as aggressively for the last few months. When they send out patrols at all, they rarely stray more than a few leagues from camp.” He sighed. “Hopefully that doesn’t mean that Mahrak has finally capitulated.”

  There had been no word from the City of Hope for a very long time. Small scouting patrols had managed to steal close to Mahrak over the years and bring back news of the siege, but Rakh-amn-hotep had called off the missions just before he began sending his troops northwards. He didn’t want to risk having one of his scouts taken prisoner and revealing the army’s position.

  After a moment the stout king shook his head.

  “If Mahrak had fallen, Nagash’s host would be bearing down on Lybaras right now,” he said. Secretly however, the king’s instincts told him that the city was close to collapse. That they had endured as long as they had was a grim sort of miracle. He thought of Nebunefer, and wondered if the old priest still lived.

  A stir went through the Ushabti. One of them pointed southwards, and the king peered into the gloom.

  “Here they come,” Rakh-amn-hotep said portentously.

  The plume of dust raised by the column was a faint smudge in the moonlit sky. Rakh-amn-hotep first spied a small squadron of chariots, no doubt the king’s Ushabti, and then came a single, darkly painted wagon, drawn by a team of six horses. A final company of spearmen marched doggedly across the rough terrain behind the Lybaran court wagon.

  As the king watched, a pair of Rasetran scouts broke cover from a shadowy defile further south and rode out to meet the column. There was a brief exchange, and one scout led the wagon and its bodyguards towards the ridge where Rakh-amn-hotep waited. The remaining scout wheeled his horse around and guided the spear company towards a nearby gully, where the troops could eat a decent meal and catch a few hours of sleep before the march began the next day.

  Rakh-amn-hotep gestured to his companions and began walking down the ridge towards the oncoming wagon. The Lybaran Ushabti arrived first, dismounting from their chariots and bowing their heads respectfully to the Rasetran king as he approached.

  The wagon, the last, battered remnant of Hekhmenukep’s splendid mobile court, rattled to a halt a few moments later. Slaves raced around to the back of the conveyance, pulling its wooden doors open and placing a set of steps on the ground just as the Lybaran king emerged.

  Hekhmenukep had healed well since the battle at the fountains. Deep wrinkles crowded the corners of the priest king’s eyes, and he moved with greater care than he might have done years before, but otherwise he seemed in good health. He climbed down onto solid ground and approached Rakh-amn-hotep, trailed by an earnest-looking young man in royal robes.

  “Well met, old friend,” Hekhmenukep said sombrely. He turned and gestured towards his companion. “Allow me to present my son and heir, Prince Khepra.” Khepra stepped forwards and bowed to the Rasetran king.

  “It is a great honour,” he said, his voice grave and his expression full of youthful seriousness. Rakh-amn-hotep nodded courteously to the young man.

  “In return, let me introduce my own son,” he said, indicating the slender, robed young man standing nearby. “This is Prince Shepret.”

  At the sound of his name the robed figure stepped forwards and bowed. He drew back his desert facecloth, revealing sharp, aquiline features and startling green eyes.

  “The honour is ours,” Shepret said. Though physically almost exactly the opposite of the stout, craggy-featured Rasetran king, Shepret’s steely tone and brusque manner was just like his father’s. Hekhmenukep smiled at Rakh-amn-hotep.

  “It appears we think alike, you and I,” he said.

  “Indeed,” the Rasetran king replied. “About time for the younger generation to make their mark in the world.” But Hekhmenukep could not mistake the look that went with Rakh-amn-hotep’s words.

  Both men understood that this was the last chance to save their homes. If they failed to break Nagash at Mahrak, the cities of the east were doomed. Better that their sons fight and die on the battlefield than bend their knees to the Usurper.

  “I trust you’ve taken good care of my troops these last few months,” Hekhmenukep said, changing the subject.

  The Rasetran king nodded. “All is in readiness,” he said. “Now that you’ve arrived we will march at first light tomorrow. There’s no sense waiting any more than we must and risk a chance discovery by Nagash’s scouts.”

  Hekhmenukep nodded. “And the Usurper suspects nothing?” he aske
d.

  “As far as we can tell, he has no idea we’re here,” Rakh-amn-hotep replied. “His attention is focused entirely on Mahrak, and his Numasi allies are doing a poor job of securing his flank. We’ll hit the Numasi encampment tomorrow like a thunderbolt, and drive through and into Nagash’s positions before they know what is happening.”

  “What of Zandri’s army?” Hekhmenukep asked. “Is there any sign of them?” Rakh-amn-hotep shook his head.

  “We assume they are further north, guarding the Usurper’s northern flank, too far away to make much difference once the attack begins. By the time they are able to join the battle the outcome will have already been decided.”

  Hekhmenukep considered the plan and nodded. Both kings knew that their forces were badly outnumbered. Surprise was essential if they were to have a hope of defeating Nagash’s horde.

  “Let us pray that we can avoid notice for just a few hours more,” he said. “The future of all Nehekhara depends upon it.”

  Thirty yards away, two men lay behind another rocky ridge line, listening intently. The voices of the two kings carried easily through the cold night air. Eventually, the party climbed aboard the Lybaran court wagon and the procession made its way up into a hidden valley, where the bulk of the allied army waited.

  The two Numasi scouts waited for more than half an hour, long after the last echoes of the wagon’s passage had faded away. Slowly and carefully, they eased from their camouflaged holes and slipped like shadows down to the base of the ridge, where their horses waited. Without a word, the two men climbed into their saddles and parted ways, racing across the desert to carry the news to their master.

  THIRTY

  The End of all Things

  Mahrak, the City of Hope, in the 63rd year of Djaf the Terrible

  (-1740 Imperial reckoning)

  The Lahmian army reached Mahrak by mid-morning of the next day, arriving with a fanfare of trumpets and the liquid flutter of hundreds of yellow silk banners. Squadrons of heavy cavalry came first, riding around the northern perimeter of the besieged city in a sinuous column of brightly coloured pennons. Silver pendants worked into the horses’ harnesses glittered icily in the bright sunlight, contrasting with the strange, coal-black scale shirts and greaves that the cavalrymen wore. Behind the heavy horsemen rode smaller squadrons of horse archers riding sleek, lean-limbed mounts. Short, powerful horse bows rested across their wooden saddles, similar to the fearsome weapons of the vanquished Bhagarites.