The Rise of Nagash

by Mike Lee

  “All things end, master,” said a quiet voice from behind Alcadizzar. “Or so the priests say.”

  The prince turned at the sound of the voice. A gaunt, shaven-headed man stood just to the right of the doorway at the eastern end of the room, head bowed and hands clasped at his waist. His skin was a peculiar shade of pale mahogany, with the shadowy lines of old tattoos twining sinuously along his throat and the sides of his skull.

  “Ubaid,” Alcadizzar said, addressing the man. “Forgive me. I didn’t realise you were there.”

  “I didn’t wish to disturb your study,” Ubaid answered. He was a man of subdued manner and indeterminate age, who had been the prince’s personal servant since he was a babe. In all that time, Alcadizzar had never known him to smile, or frown, or sneer; his expression was leaden, his movements slow and hesitant. Ubaid had the aura of a man burdened by the weight of the world. If the man had a family—or a life at all beyond the palace walls—he had never spoken of it to Alcadizzar.

  “You fought well,” the servant observed. “Are you not pleased with your victory?”

  Alcadizzar ran a fingertip along the metal rim of the cup, his handsome face pensive. “Every victory just leads to another set of problems,” he grumbled. “I fail to see the point anymore.”

  “The point is to learn,” Ubaid answered patiently. “You are privileged to have the very best tutors in the land, master. Their wisdom is worth its weight in gold.”

  “Really? It doesn’t feel like wisdom anymore, Ubaid. More like mockery.” Alcadizzar glowered at the miniature battlefield. “Jabari never lets up. None of them do. What am I doing wrong?”

  “Wrong?” For the first time in Alcadizzar’s memory, Ubaid sounded faintly shocked. “How can you say such a thing, master? The blood of the divine runs through your veins. You are stronger, swifter and sharper of mind than any of your peers, and you well know it.”

  “Then why am I still here?” Alcadizzar rounded on Ubaid, his dark eyes flashing. “I’m thirty years old! None of the other heirs remained past their eighteenth birthday. If I’m so much better than everyone else, why do I remain behind?”

  Ubaid sighed. “Is it not obvious? Because you are meant for greater things, Alcadizzar. You alone will one day rise to the throne of Khemri, greatest of the cities of the west. For all the work your father has done to resettle and rebuild Khemri, it will fall to you to restore it to its former glory.” The servant slowly straightened, folding his thin arms across his chest. “The great queen has her eye upon you, master. She… expects great things of you.”

  Alcadizzar had a hard time believing that the stiff, somnolent Queen of Lahmia paid him any mind at all. For the most part, the royal heirs lived in their own world, separate from the affairs of the court, attended by a select cadre of servants and tutors. In all his years at the palace, he’d been in her presence only a handful of times and she had scarcely spoken to him at all.

  “I know very well what’s expected of me,” the prince answered. “Believe me, I do. It’s all I’ve ever known.” He swept his hand over the mock battlefield. “Tactics. Strategy. Statesmanship. History, law and commerce. Philosophy, theology and alchemy. Within these walls I’ve fought campaigns, forged alliances, crafted trade agreements and designed great buildings. I’ve learned to fight with sword and spear, learned how to ride, how to speak and sing and a hundred other things I can’t ever imagine having a use for.” He leaned against the table and sighed. “I’m ready, Ubaid. I know I am. Khemri is waiting for me. When will the queen let me go?”

  The servant joined Alcadizzar at the table. He leaned forwards slightly, studying the prince’s troubled face. “A delegation from Rasetra arrived today, led by your uncle Khenti. He was in audience with the queen all afternoon.”

  Alcadizzar scowled. He’d never met Khenti, but he knew from Jabari that his uncle was one of Rasetra’s most powerful nobles, and a force to be reckoned with. “What does he want?”

  “Why, you, of course,” Ubaid replied. A strange expression passed like a shadow across the servant’s face. “He must be a very persuasive man. I’ve been told to prepare you for a second audience later tonight.”

  Alcadizzar straightened, pulse quickening. “An audience? In the royal court?” Such a thing was rare and portentous indeed.

  Ubaid shook his head. “No, master. At the Temple of Blood.” The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You and your uncle have been summoned by the high priestess herself.”

  “For you, holy one,” the priestess said, her voice muffled by the exquisite golden mask she wore. She bowed her head, lifting the golden goblet to Neferata with both hands. “An offer of love and life eternal.”

  Neferata favoured the priestess with a faint smile. She reached out with long, cold fingers and plucked the goblet from the supplicant’s hands. The thin metal was deliciously warm to the touch. As always, the thirst cut through her like a knife. No matter how many nights went by, it never lost its razor edge.

  Carefully, with perfect, unnatural grace, she raised the cup to her lips. Hot and coppery, yet ineffably sweet, it suffused her entire body in moments, filling it with heat and strength. She drank slowly but steadily, savouring the sensations of mortal life. When she was done, she licked a stray speck of red from the goblet’s rim with the tip of her tongue, then handed back the empty vessel. She could already feel the blush of vigour fading like heat seeping from the sides of a cooling kettle. In just a few hours the thirst would return, as sharp and cruel as ever.

  “This isn’t wise,” said Lord Ankhat, scowling into the depths of his own cup. In life, he had been a handsome, charismatic nobleman, with a charming smile and dark, piercing eyes. Slightly shorter than most Nehekharans, but trim and physically fit even into middle age, he acted with the casual authority of a man born to wealth and power. “The Rasetrans are out of patience. Just give them the damned boy and be done with it.”

  The nobleman’s rich, commanding voice echoed in the dimly lit vault of the temple’s inner sanctum. Above them, lit by shafts of moonlight that filtered through narrow gaps in the chamber’s ceiling, rose the alabaster statue of Asaph, goddess of love and magic and ancient patron of the city itself. The blessings of the gods had allowed the Nehekharans to prosper amongst the desert sands for thousands of years, and in all that time, the sacred covenant between man and the divine had been made flesh in the eldest daughters of the Lahmian royal bloodline. Though the covenant had been broken centuries ago during the war against the Usurper, the power of the blood remained, and it was this that the temple purported to venerate.

  In truth, the temple served as the secret heart of Lahmia’s de facto empire, and provided both fortress and refuge for its immortal masters. When Nagash was defeated at the fall of Mahrak, more than four hundred years ago, the rebel kings of the east had pursued the Usurper’s defeated army back to Khemri. The rulers of Rasetra and Lybaras meant to end Nagash’s reign of terror for all time, but their erstwhile ally, young King Lamashizzar of Lahmia, had different plans. With the aid of the traitor Arkhan the Black, Lamashizzar found the blasphemous Tomes of Nagash and smuggled them out of the ruined city. The King of Lahmia sought the secrets of eternal life, but in the end his schemes were undone by his young queen, who had mastered Nagash’s arts more swiftly than he. Though Lamashizzar had struck first, poisoning Neferata with the venom of the long-lost sphinx, she had been reborn through a combination of dark sorcery and blood.

  With a gesture from Neferata, the priestess bearing the cup withdrew. She turned to a second priestess, who waited with downcast eyes and held a curved mask of beaten gold in her hands. The features of the mask were a cold reflection of Neferata’s own, crafted by master artisans in her youth to conceal her divine beauty from unworthy eyes. She had been forced to wear it every day of her life when in public and, like her forebears, she was meant to wear it to her tomb. Neferata closed her eyes as the cool metal was pressed to her face, reminded, as she always was, of her ow
n death, centuries before.

  “Alcadizzar is not ready. Not yet,” she replied. Her tone was smooth and melodic, as soothing as cool water in the desert. It was not the sort of tone a sane man could resist, no matter what he felt in his heart, but Ankhat was unmoved.

  “Then you’re flirting with war,” the nobleman said darkly. “Khenti all but spat at the queen’s feet. He demanded we hand over Alcadizzar immediately. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Neferata straightened swiftly and glared at Ankhat. Her full lips parted behind the concealing mask, revealing a pair of curved, leonine fangs. Though he couldn’t see her expression, the force of her stare caused the immortal to stiffen.

  “You forget who rules here, Ankhat.” Her voice lowered to a soft growl. “Khenti can say all he likes to the queen. If he wants Alcadizzar, he will have to deal with me.”

  A figure stirred from the shadows near the entrance to the sanctum. Lord Ushoran came forwards, holding his own empty cup loosely in his hand. Though distantly related to the royal family and in life a powerful nobleman himself, Ushoran was nothing like the dynamic, charming Ankhat. He was of average height, with bland, average features that failed to leave a lasting impression in the mind. The Lord of Masks was a man who loved his intrigues, and over the centuries his network of spies had spread all over Nehekhara.

  “It is not merely Khenti that you contend with,” Ushoran said. “My agents in Rasetra tell me that Aten-heru has warned his nobles that they could be called to arms at any moment. What is more, the king has sent a number of letters to the rulers of Lybaras, Ka-Sabar—even far-off Zandri.” He shrugged. “It’s possible that Aten-heru expects you to refuse him once again. It would give him something to rally the other cities around and force a confrontation between us and a coalition of most of the other great cities.”

  “If that happens, we would be undone,” Ankhat declared. “We have no means of enforcing our trade agreements and loan obligations at this point, also the other cities have grown increasingly resentful of the gold they pay us every year. Zandri has been testing our resolve for years now; if Aten-heru declares he’ll no longer honour his obligations to us, the other cities will surely follow.”

  “And what of the army?” Neferata demanded. “It’s been five years. Are they ready to fight, or not?”

  Ankhat sighed. “The process of rebuilding is a slow one. We’ve restored the army to its former size, but the troops are inexperienced. They’re a credible threat to a weak city like Lybaras or Mahrak, but the Rasetrans are another matter entirely.”

  Neferata beckoned, and another group of priestesses hurried from the shadows to set a carved mahogany chair at the feet of the great statue. There were never more than three hundred priestesses and acolytes in the temple at any time, and the highest of the orders served as her personal handmaidens. They were entirely her creatures, bound by Neferata’s seductive allure and her implacable will. She settled lightly into the chair and allowed the priestesses to hover about her, arranging her golden vestments and tugging at the sleeves of her white silk robe.

  “Alcadizzar must remain, whether Khenti wishes it or not,” she told the two lords. “And the Rasetrans will have no choice but to accept it. You will see.” She waved the priestesses away. “Now go. Khenti and his retainers are drawing near.”

  Ushoran withdrew into the shadows without a word. Ankhat remained a moment longer, his eyes glinting angrily.

  “Your obsession with this man is going to destroy us all,” he said to her. “You mark my words, Neferata. One day, Lahmia will burn, and Alcadizzar will be the cause.”

  Neferata straightened, swift as an adder, but before she could snarl a reply Ankhat was gone. Moments later, the great doors of the outer sanctum swung silently open to admit Lord Khenti and his retinue.

  Khenti was a man of middle years, but like nearly all of Rasetra’s noblemen, he was still in fighting trim. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a swordsman’s thick wrists and sinewy forearms, and a blunt, pugnacious face that harked back to Rakh-amn-hotep, the city’s legendary warrior-king.

  Neferata noted with some amusement that Khenti had chosen to attend the audience in full battledress; a heavy iron scale vest, no doubt obtained at great expense from the new foundries at Ka-Sabar, worn over a thick vest and calf-length kilt of thunder-lizard hide. His left hand rested on the worn hilt of a heavy khopesh sheathed at his hip and his dark eyes swept the shadows of the sanctum, as though expecting some kind of ambush. She studied the nobleman’s belligerent expression and smiled mirthlessly, running her tongue along the needle-like tips of her fangs.

  “Enter and be welcome,” she said to the Rasetrans. Her rich voice resonated through the sanctum, augmented only slightly by the power in her veins. Khenti’s bodyguards slowed their swift pace almost at once, their shoulders relaxing and their hands sliding from the hilts of their weapons. Their master, however, was apparently made of sterner stuff; if anything, Khenti’s suspicious scowl only deepened, though he no longer had eyes for anything but Neferata.

  “Be at peace, and know that the power of the divine abides in the blood of the chosen,” she continued, focussing a bit more of her attention on Khenti. This close, she could hear the whisper of blood in his veins and measure the drumbeat of his heart. “You honour us with your presence, Lord Khenti. Have you an offering to propitiate the memory of the gods?”

  The nobleman grunted. “I made my offerings to Ptra at noontime,” he said disdainfully, “and at a proper temple, down in the city.”

  Neferata gave a faint nod. Though the sacred covenant had been broken and the holy city of Mahrak ravaged during the war with the Usurper, the temples to the gods still lingered in most of the great cities. Attempts to spread Lahmia’s cult across Nehekhara had so far met with little success. “It is virtuous to respect the old ways,” she replied neutrally.

  Khenti drew himself straighter, chin raised defiantly. “Would that your queen did as well!” he declared. “Bad enough that Lahmia holds the royal heirs of the other cities as hostage to its greed; now it denies Khemri its rightful king!”

  Neferata folded her hands in her lap. “Greed, my lord?” she said. Her smile widened. “Am I mistaken, or was Khemri not rebuilt with Lahmian gold?”

  Khenti folded his muscular arms. “Don’t play games of rhetoric with me, priestess,” he growled. “Either the Queen of Lahmia gives up Alcadizzar, or else she admits that she’s holding him as a prisoner and accepts the consequences of her mistake.”

  Neferata chuckled. Aten-heru had been a fool to send Khenti, she thought. This was going to be simpler than she’d imagined. “Blunt, but well said,” she told the Rasetran. “I would expect no less from a man such as yourself.” She laced the words with another slight caress of power and watched Khenti relax slightly. He believed that he had the upper hand now. With the right words, she could make him believe anything she wished.

  “The hour grows late, priestess,” Khenti said. “Why is it you wished to see me?”

  Neferata studied the Rasetran thoughtfully. “You came here seeking the release of Prince Alcadizzar,” she said carefully. “But there has been a misunderstanding, my lord. The queen did not speak of it, because it was not her place to do so.”

  Khenti frowned. “Not her place?”

  She met his scowl coolly. “Prince Alcadizzar is not a guest of the royal house. For the last twelve years, he has remained in Lahmia at the behest of the temple.”

  For a moment, the Rasetran was too stunned to speak. “The temple? How in the name of all the gods—”

  “All will be explained in due course,” Neferata said, forestalling Khenti’s outrage with an upraised hand. “We await only the arrival of the prince. And see—he comes, even now.”

  She could hear Alcadizzar’s approach through the temple’s antechamber; swift, sure steps, light and precise as a dancer’s. Neferata could read much into those movements; after thirty years, she knew the prince more intimately than any lov
er. The prince was in high spirits, hastening to the audience with eagerness and keen interest. She straightened slightly, listening to the long, powerful drumbeats of Alcadizzar’s heart, and felt her own pulse quicken in response.

  He swept into the outer sanctum like a summer storm. The still air was suddenly tense with pent-up energy; heads turned at once, seeking the source. A stir went through the Rasetrans. Khenti’s bodyguards sank to their knees at once, several of the warriors crying out in wonder at the sight of the prince. Khenti gaped at Alcadizzar for a moment, his eyes widening in disbelief. Then, with a shout of joy he strode forwards and gripped the prince’s forearms in greeting.

  Alcadizzar favoured Khenti and the bodyguards with one of his dazzling smiles. Taller even than Khenti and powerfully built, his presence filled the shadowy chamber with warmth, vitality and strength. Such was his charm that within moments the Rasetrans were smiling and laughing as though in the presence of a long-lost friend.

  “Look at you!” Khenti marvelled, staring up at his nephew’s face. He gripped Alcadizzar’s muscular forearms tighter, as though fearful that the prince might be a mirage. “Big as a damned thunder-lizard!” He rotated the prince’s arms and studied his hands. “You’ve been training hard, I see. Good.” The nobleman frowned questioningly. “What about your studies? Has that old horse Jabari been keeping you busy?”

  Alcadizzar chuckled. “He vexes me every single day, uncle.”

  “Good, good!” Khenti said with a laugh. “There’s no better campaigner in all of Nehekhara. If you can hold your own against the likes of him, there’s no army in the land you can’t defeat.”

  “I can well believe it,” the prince replied. Absently, he waved for the bodyguards to rise from the floor. The warriors responded at once, admiration evident in their eyes. Neferata watched the exchange with bemusement, as she always did when Alcadizzar was in the company of lesser mortals. Though he’d been exhaustively educated in the social arts, the prince still had a disturbing tendency to ignore propriety and treat everyone, even servants, as his equals. It was degrading to watch, but Alcadizzar didn’t care in the least, and the common folk worshipped him for it. Neferata couldn’t fathom it; it was the one aspect of his personality that remained a complete mystery to her.