by Mike Lee
As Nagash watched, the enemy’s flank attacks poured warriors into the tunnels in staggering numbers. They fought down the connecting tunnels in both directions, tightening the noose around the skeletons trapped inside the mine shaft. Immediately, Nagash ordered skeletons from the upper levels to push forwards, trying to batter their way through the enemy positions and link back up with the front lines, but he could already sense the tide of battle starting to flow away from him once more. After another moment’s hesitation, he came to a galling decision.
The necromancer broadcast his orders to the horde. Within the mine shaft, half of the warriors formed a rearguard to hold the attacking ratmen at bay, while the rest began to withdraw back down the branch-tunnels towards the enemy’s flanking units. He had to salvage what forces he could and form a defensive line until he knew the full extent of his enemy’s dispositions.
It took almost three hours for his warriors to fight their way out of the trap. The enemy’s flanking attacks were finally driven back, but not before the skeletal rearguard had been overwhelmed. The ratmen surged forwards, scrambling over heaps of shattered bones, and harried the withdrawing skeletons until they fetched up against fortified defensive positions three levels above. The invaders hurled themselves at the fortifications three times, only to be repulsed with heavy losses. After the third attack, the survivors paused, muttering and snarling to one another as they considered their next move. Nagash used the time to further reinforce his lines and prepare for more flanking attacks, but after half an hour the invaders slowly withdrew to their own hastily-formed lines.
The first battle of Nagashizzar had reached its bloody, inconclusive end.
TWO
Manifest Destinies
Lahmia, the City of the Dawn, in the 97th year of Djaf the Terrible
(-1320 Imperial Reckoning)
Old Jabari grinned and picked up the wooden cup with one gnarled hand. He gave it a good shake, rattling the ivory dice inside. Alcadizzar had learned to hate that sound.
The scarred Rasetran bent forwards and squinted into the depths of the cup. “Hmm,” he said cheerfully. “Interesting.”
Alcadizzar folded his arms, glaring at the dispositions of his army. Four spear companies were arrayed in a slightly curving line before the oasis, their left flank anchored by the ruins of the old caravan post, their right covered by his chariots, situated on a low dune to the south-east. His archers still held the caravan post, despite repeated attacks by enemy skirmishers. The survivors of the last attack had retreated to the edge of a dune to the north-west, where it looked like they might be re-forming for another attack. In the centre, his companies were hard-pressed by enemy infantry, and his fourth company was on the verge of breaking. His reserves—a single company of spearmen—waited in the shade of the palm trees surrounding the oasis. He hesitated on committing them just yet, for the enemy cavalry had yet to make an appearance.
Jabari set the cup aside and plucked a wooden figure from the tray at his side. “There’s a thundering of hooves off to your left!” the tutor declared. “Bronze glints in the noonday sun! There are shouts and confused cries from the ruins!” The Rasetran leaned across the wide sand table and placed the elegantly carved figure of a mounted horseman on Alcadizzar’s flank—behind the ruins of the caravan post.
The prince’s eyes widened. “Where in the name of all the gods did they come from?”
Jabari shrugged his wide shoulders in feigned bewilderment, but his deep-set eyes glinted with mischief. In his prime, he had been Rasetra’s Master of Horse, and had ridden in more than a dozen campaigns against the city’s foes. He pointed a scarred finger at the ragged, knife-like cleft carved through the sand off to the left of the ruins. “Given the shouts of surprise coming from the ruins, I’d hazard a guess that they came galloping out of that wadi.”
“What? No, that’s not possible!” Alcadizzar sputtered. “Look—the far end of the wadi’s in full view of my archers! We’d have seen them coming!”
Jabari nodded sagely. “So it would seem, so it would seem,” he replied agreeably. “Of course, there could also be a narrow branch connecting it to that larger wadi further north,” he pointed out, indicating a much wider cleft that curved behind the dunes further north. “No way to tell from here, of course. Perhaps if your scouts had explored the area more thoroughly the day before you might have learned for certain.”
Alcadizzar sighed. “Very well,” he grumbled. “How many?”
Jabari smiled and picked up the cup again. The dice rattled. “Thousands, your aides say. Many thousands!”
The prince’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Jabari always portrayed his aides as credulous nitwits. It hardly seemed realistic. He studied the sand table for a moment. The carved mahogany figure representing him and his retinue was positioned on a low dune just behind the oasis, dangerously close to the swift-moving enemy horsemen. “All right. How many can I see?”
Jabari shook the dice cup. “You can’t tell. Too much dust.”
Of course, Alcadizzar thought sourly. He studied the battlefield a moment longer, then nodded. “Shift the reserve company to the left, double-quick, and order them to attack the enemy horsemen.”
“Very well—”
“And I send two runners instead of one, to make certain that the order gets through,” Alcadizzar interjected. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
Jabari’s smile widened. “I hear and obey, great one,” he replied. The tutor rattled the dice in the cup a few more times, considered the results, and then began shifting the positions of the troops on the table.
The prince reached for the goblet of watered wine resting on the edge of the table and sipped thoughtfully, his gaze wandering to the tall windows that lined the western wall of the chamber. There were few clouds in the sky, despite the summer season; the late afternoon sun outlined the dark hills beyond Lahmia’s walls and sent shafts of mellow, golden light through the tall windowpanes. A good day to be riding, he thought wistfully, watching a caravan heading out through the city’s western gate. The traders were leaving very late in the day; possibly there had been delays loading their goods, or perhaps they’d encountered difficulties obtaining the proper permits from the city magistrates. As it was, they would be lucky to make it up the winding hill roads and onto the edge of the Golden Plain by nightfall. From there, it would be a week to cross the plain—providing they had no trouble from the bandit gangs that roamed the area—and then on to Lybaras, or Rasetra, or even farther west, past forlorn Mahrak and through the Valley of Kings to the great cities of the west. They could even be heading for Khemri, he realised, and felt a sharp pang of envy.
Some day, Alcadizzar told himself. Some day he would be ready. But when?
All roads in Nehekhara led to Lahmia, the opulent City of the Dawn. The wealth of the great city and the wise leadership of its rulers had led the Nehekharans out of the dark age wrought by Nagash the Usurper; indeed, the bloodline of its ruling dynasty was worshipped as the last vestige of divinity in a land that had been rendered bereft of its gods.
Lahmia’s power and influence was so preeminent that it had become custom for the ruling families of the other great cities to send their young heirs to be educated at the City of the Dawn. They were borne to the great city, amid much pomp and ceremony, as soon as they were old enough to travel—all except for Alcadizzar, that was. His mother Hathor, Queen of Rasetra, had journeyed to Lahmia while he was still in the womb; her pregnancy had been fraught with trouble and the royal midwives were doubtful that she would deliver her child. Desperate, the queen turned to the only source of aid left to her, the Temple of Blood. There, she held a vigil in the presence of the goddess, praying for the prince’s life.
Before the dawn—or so the story went—the high priestess of the temple came to Hathor, saying that her pleas had been answered. The goddess had spoken, and her child would survive. Every week afterwards, she was brought to the temple, where she was given an elixir to
drink that had been blessed by the goddess herself. Two months later, almost to the very hour that the high priestess first spoke to her, Hathor gave birth to Alcadizzar. The queen had remained with him at the temple for a full year afterwards; then she placed him in the care of the Lahmian royal household and returned to Rasetra. Alcadizzar had never met his father, King Aten-heru, nor did he have any memories of his mother, who died in childbirth two years after returning home.
The insistent rattling of dice disturbed the prince’s reverie. Alcadizzar turned back to the table and frowned. Jabari smiled, shaking the cup. “What are your orders, great one?” he asked.
On the battlefield, Alcadizzar’s reserve company had obeyed its orders with surprising speed, altering their formation to the left and charging over the open space behind the oasis to make contact with the oncoming enemy horsemen. Now both units were locked in melee. The spearmen had suffered the worst of it so far, having borne the brunt of the cavalry’s charge, but now the horsemen’s momentum was exhausted. Given time, the infantry would gain the upper hand.
Unfortunately, time was not a luxury that Alcadizzar’s fictional army possessed. As the cavalry attack began, the rest of the enemy force renewed its attacks all along the length of the battle-line. The skirmishers had rallied and once more charged the caravan post, locking his archers in brutal hand-to-hand combat. In the centre, the enemy spear companies were driving forwards, despite terrible casualties, and his fourth company had broken at last. The survivors were retreating into the oasis and the triumphant enemy company was swinging to the right, preparing to attack his third company in the flank.
The prince took in the situation at a glance. His army was balanced on a knife edge. If he didn’t shore up the centre, he was finished. “Order the chariots off the hill,” he said to Jabari. “Have them screen their movements behind the oasis, then swing around and charge the enemy spear company on our flank. I also send one of my senior nobles to rally the broken spear company and hold them in reserve inside the oasis.”
Jabari nodded sagely and rattled his dice. He peered into the cup. “There is a problem,” he replied.
Alcadizzar gritted his teeth. There were always problems. “What now?”
Jabari pointed to his reserve company. “The commander of the unit has been killed, as well as his champion. The company is wavering.”
The prince leaned against the edge of the table, looming over the two innocuous-looking wooden figures. If the reserve company broke, the cavalry would be free to charge his chariots, preventing them from saving his centre. He had to either rally the reserve company somehow, or stop the horsemen. Preferably both. Unfortunately, he didn’t have anyone left to commit to the fight.
Alcadizzar paused. That wasn’t entirely true. He reached over the map and picked up a small, unassuming piece of wood carved in the shape of a sphinx, its fearsome head crowned with a king’s headdress.
“I and my retinue will attack the enemy horsemen in the flank,” the prince said. He repositioned the sphinx next to his embattled reserve unit.
Jabari rubbed his weathered chin. “Risky,” he said. “Very risky. You could get a sword in your guts. And there’s no one giving orders to the rest of the army while you’re off playing soldier.”
“The rest of the army’s committed.” He shrugged. “Time for me to do my part.”
The old Master of Horse shook his head. “A fine thing to say when you’re talking about pieces of wood,” he grumbled, but for a moment there was a glint of admiration in Jabari’s eye. “Very well, great one. On your head be it.”
The dice rattled. Alcadizzar’s tutor contemplated the results, like a long-lost oracle. First he moved the prince’s chariots off the hill and placed them against the rear ranks of the flanking enemy spear company. Then he bent over the map and plucked Alcadizzar’s archers from the caravan post.
“The enemy’s skirmishers have taken the caravan post,” he told the prince. “There’s no way to tell how many of them are left, because none of yours lived to tell the tale.” Before Alcadizzar could protest, Jabari turned his attention to the chariots. “Your charioteers have taken the enemy spear company by surprise; their initial charge has wrought terrible carnage on their rear ranks. So far, however, the enemy continues to hold their ground.”
Then the old tutor turned to the battle against the enemy horsemen. “Your charge here likewise surprised the enemy,” he said. “You and your bodyguard have penetrated the formation, but your foes are putting up a stiff fight. You are swiftly surrounded.”
Alcadizzar’s eyes narrowed on Jabari. “What about the spearmen?”
Jabari nodded. “Your appearance has rallied them. They are pushing back hard against the enemy horsemen. Will you withdraw at this point?”
The prince frowned. “Of course not!”
Jabari shrugged. He raised the cup. Dice rattled. He thought for a moment, then sighed.
“Most of your bodyguards have fallen, struck down by enemy swords and axes,” he said. “You’ve been wounded, but remain in the saddle. Your spearmen are fighting to reach you, but they seem a long way off.”
“What about the chariots?”
“You have no idea,” the instructor said. “They’re the least of your worries right now.”
“But—surely I can see them?” Alcadizzar stammered.
“All you can see right now is dust and rearing horses,” Jabari said. “Men are screaming. Blows are hammering at your shield and sword. It’s all you can do to stay in the saddle.”
“My bodyguards—”
“They’re gone,” Jabari said. “All of them.”
Before Alcadizzar could reply, Jabari rattled the dice again. “There is a terrible blow to your side. You tumble from the saddle. Hooves churn the ground all around you, missing you by inches.”
Alcadizzar’s eyes went wide. “Wait. That’s not what I—”
“Men loom over you, shouting and swearing from their saddles. One of them raises his sword. And then…”
The prince’s heart sank.
“There is a mighty shout from your right. Your spearmen hurl themselves at the enemy, frantic to save you from their clutches. The enemy horsemen are stunned by the ferocity of the attack and as dozens are killed, their courage breaks. They break off, fleeing back in the direction of the wadi.”
Jabari bent over the map, shifting the figure of the enemy cavalry back towards the winding gully. Alcadizzar’s mouth was dry. Belatedly, he remembered the goblet of wine in his hand and took a quick drink.
The old cavalryman continued to work. “Your men find you a horse that belonged to one of your bodyguards and put you on it.” Jabari turned his attention to the centre. “When your messengers are able to reach you again, you learn that your chariots have broken the enemy spear company.” He picked up the unit’s wooden figure and placed it at the foot of a dune well behind the rest of the enemy army. “Your chariots are now poised to strike the next enemy company in the flank.”
The prince felt a flush of triumph. “Give the order to charge!” he said. “Meanwhile, I will lead the reserve company back to the oasis and attempt to rally the broken spear company there as well.”
At that point, the battle had turned. Alcadizzar could see that his troops were stronger and had momentum on their side. The chariots drove off a second enemy company before having to withdraw themselves, but by that point he had rallied the survivors of the fourth spear company and sent both them and the reserve spear company back into the fray. Their arrival tipped the balance, forcing the rest of the enemy army to withdraw. Jabari, ever stubborn, fought a bitter rearguard action against Alcadizzar’s warriors. The sun had nearly set by the time the old tutor declared that the battle was finally over.
“A narrow victory,” Jabari declared, surveying the battlefield afterwards. “You were very lucky. Do you know what you did wrong?”
“I didn’t scout that damned wadi before the battle,” the prince said ruefully.
&n
bsp; Jabari nodded. “That’s right. You should have never left those horsemen to get behind you like that. Always know the site of battle better than your enemy.”
Alcadizzar watched Jabari gather up the wooden figures from the table and set them on a shelf along the wall at the far side of the room. “Was it a mistake to charge the enemy horsemen?” he asked.
The old tutor paused. “What do you think?”
“It seemed like the best chance of winning the battle.”
“You could have been killed.”
The young prince shrugged. “Isn’t it a king’s duty to protect his people to the death?”
To Alcadizzar’s surprise, Jabari threw back his head and laughed. “Most kings prefer it the other way round.”
“Well, I’m not afraid to die,” Alcadizzar said haughtily.
“That’s because right now you’ve got nothing to lose,” Jabari said. “Wait until you have a wife and a family. Wait until you have real people depending on you, not blocks of wood.”
Alcadizzar folded his arms stubbornly, stung by the dismissive tone in Jabari’s voice. “It wouldn’t make a difference. When I rule Khemri, I’ll defend the city with my life.”
“Then no doubt history will remember you as a great king,” Jabari replied. “But your reign will be a short one, I fear.” He bowed to the prince. “Congratulations on another victory, Alcadizzar. By tomorrow, I expect you to be ready to continue your pursuit of the retreating army… and take steps to deal with the peasant revolt that has broken out in your capital.”
Alcadizzar returned the bow, permitting himself a fleeting smile at Jabari’s rare praise. “Thank you, Jabari. I—” Suddenly the prince stood bolt upright, his brows knitting together in a frown. “Peasant revolt? What peasant revolt?” He glanced about, searching for Jabari, but the old cavalry master had already slipped silently from the room.
With a sigh, Alcadizzar set his empty wine cup on the edge of the table. “It never ends,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Never.”