by Mike Lee
“How is my father?” the prince asked. Alcadizzar gave Khenti a wink. “He hasn’t forgotten about me, has he?”
“Certainly not!” Khenti said. “He thinks of you always and awaits the day of your homecoming.” The nobleman seemed to remember Neferata, and turned back to the dais. His good humour evaporated like rain on the desert sands. “A homecoming that’s twelve years overdue.”
“Indeed,” Neferata said. She laced the word with power and savoured its effect on the assembled men. They responded to her at once, forgetting their high spirits and focussing on her once more. All except Alcadizzar. The prince favoured her with a bemused expression and one of his intense, curious stares, as though she were a puzzle that demanded a solution.
The intensity of his stare transfixed her. The power of his intellect was almost tangible, gripping her like a pair of invisible hands. Her dead heart raced. Was this how mortals felt when she addressed them? Did they feel this mixture of anxiety and exaltation?
Here was a man to give even the immortals pause, like one of the great heroes from Nehekharan legend. But it wasn’t the power of the gods that coursed like lightning through Alcadizzar’s veins, but Neferata’s own dark magic. While he was still in the womb, his mother had been persuaded to drink an elixir of youth and vigour formulated by Neferata herself. It had made Alcadizzar a virtual god among men, like the mythical Ushabti of ancient times. Now, at last, his abilities were nearly at their peak. The time had come to reveal the destiny that awaited him—one she had built painstakingly for the last thirty years.
“Welcome to the Temple of Blood, great prince,” she said, nodding her head in greeting. “It gives me great joy to see you here.” She extended her hand and pointed to a spot on the stone floor, not far from where Alcadizzar stood. “It was not so long ago that your blessed mother knelt here and prayed to the goddess to bless you with health and good fortune.”
Alcadizzar nodded sombrely. “Yes. I’ve heard the tale.”
“She was very brave,” Neferata said, affecting as much warmth in her voice as she could. She had to be careful with the prince; she knew from experience that his perceptions were much keener than normal men. “Your mother was in ill health, but she braved the long journey from Rasetra to pray here, at the temple, in hopes of saving your life.” Neferata inclined her head to Khenti. “You remember, don’t you, my lord?”
Khenti’s pugnacious face turned pinched, as though he’d bit into a lemon. “Aye, I recall,” he said, disapproving of the deed but unwilling to speak ill of the dead.
Neferata smiled behind her mask. “The goddess heard your mother’s plea and was moved.” She gestured towards Alcadizzar with a sweep of her hand. “And look at the man you have become! There is not another like you in all of Nehekhara, Prince Alcadizzar. She has seen to that. Now it is incumbent upon you to honour the great gifts that you have been given.”
Khenti frowned. He opened his mouth to protest, but Alcadizzar unintentionally cut him off.
“I’m deeply aware of my obligations to the people of Khemri,” the prince said, in that same, sombre tone. “I’ve spent my entire life preparing for the day I become king.”
“So you have,” Neferata said, and there was no need to manufacture the pride in her voice. “You will be a great king, Alcadizzar. But we at the temple believe that you are destined for much more.”
“Destined for what?” Khenti asked, having recovered his composure.
Neferata leaned back in her chair and fixed Alcadizzar with a steady gaze. “What do you know of the Temple of Blood, my prince?”
Alcadizzar answered at once. “The temple is based on the premise that the gods and their gifts have been taken from us, but the bloodlines they have blessed throughout Nehekhara’s history remain. They are our sole remaining connection to the divine.”
“Preposterous,” Khenti sneered.
“And yet the proof stands before you,” Neferata said. “Alcadizzar’s mother came here after she’d spent months praying in vain at the old temples of Rasetra. It was here that her prayers were answered, were they not?”
Khenti’s eyes narrowed, but he made no attempt to gainsay her. Alcadizzar, on the other hand, rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, “If the gods no longer take an active hand in our affairs, how is it that the goddess answered my mother’s prayers?”
Neferata nodded approvingly. “Remember, oh prince, the gods are gone, but the sacred bloodlines remain. Earlier, I spoke in figurative terms. The truth is that your mother spoke not to the goddess, but to the nascent power of the blood running through your veins.”
“I’m descended from a sacred bloodline?” Alcadizzar replied, both intrigued and dubious at the same time.
“One of the greatest and most venerated of all,” Neferata replied. “We suspected as much when you were born, but it has taken many years to produce the evidence.”
She clapped her hands gently and a priestess appeared from the shadows, bearing a newly bound book in her hands. The priestess set the expensive tome in the prince’s hands, bowed deeply, and then withdrew.
“Naturally, both of you are well familiar with the sacred ties between Lahmia and Khemri,” Neferata began. “Since the time of Settra the Magnificent, the kings of the Living City have wed the eldest daughters of the Lahmian royal house, who were the living embodiment of the covenant with the gods.”
Alcadizzar opened the tome reverently and began to peruse its pages. “So the blood of the royal heirs of Khemri was made sacred as well.”
“Just so,” Neferata replied. “And the Lahmian royal house has gone to great pains to record each and every family line that has been produced as a result. The documents have been maintained here at the palace for many hundreds of years.”
Neferata considered the book in Alcadizzar’s hands. The information within couldn’t be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt, but Lord Ushoran was certain that it would survive all but the most learned scrutiny. All that mattered to her was that Alcadizzar himself believed it.
“Now, Rasetra’s origins are well known; the city was originally a colony of distant Khemri, founded during the reign of King Khetep, some four-and-a-half centuries ago.” During the time of my father, she thought. Neferata still remembered how King Lamasheptra had scoffed at the thought of the small settlement at the edge of the deadly southern jungle. It was their constant, ruthless struggle for survival that had transformed them into a warrior culture both respected and feared throughout Nehekhara.
“When King Khetep made ready to return home, he chose one of his ablest lieutenants, a nobleman named Ur-Amnet, to govern the new settlement. His son, Mukhtail, became the first king of Rasetra, and every king that followed is descended from his line.”
Now Khenti’s interest was piqued as well. “But Ur-Amnet was not part of Khemri’s royal house,” he said. “His family was a noble one, but its lineage uncertain.”
“Until now,” Neferata replied. “We searched the records here at Lahmia and despatched agents to search for confirmation among the old temples at Khemri. Ur-Amnet is descended from Hapt-amn-koreb, who was a great warrior and Master of Horse to the mighty King Nemuret. Hapt-amn-koreb’s lineage is murkier still, but after many years of searching it was determined why—he was descended from Amenophis, fifth son of Settra the Magnificent.”
Alcadizzar closed his eyes for a moment. “Amenophis was disowned by Settra during the tenth year of his reign,” he said, calling upon his years of study.
“Correct. He was suspected of assassinating his older brother Djoser. Though it was never proved, Settra cast him out nonetheless. But that is irrelevant. The bloodline remains true. You, Alcadizzar, bear the ancient birthright of the gods.”
“What does this mean?” Khenti asked, taking the bait.
“That depends on Prince Alcadizzar,” Neferata replied. “There is a unique opportunity here to restore Khemri—and by extension, all of Nehekhara—to a measure of the glory it once possessed. If the prince prove
d himself worthy, we could witness the dawn of a new golden age of peace and prosperity, and put the dark memory of Nagash behind us forever.”
Alcadizzar raised his head from the book. “What do you propose?”
Neferata leaned forwards. “A new union,” she said. “One not of flesh, but of spirit. Lahmia and Khemri can be united once more by the veneration of our shared bloodline.”
Khenti’s frown deepened. “No, I don’t think—” but Alcadizzar placed a hand on his shoulder and the older Rasetran fell silent.
“What would Khemri stand to gain from such a union?”
“Why, all of the west,” Neferata said. “Right now, Lahmia rules Nehekhara in all but name. What I propose is to divide the land between us. The trade and loan obligations of Zandri, Numas and Ka-Sabar would be placed in your hands. It would ensure Khemri’s growth and prosperity for centuries, and restore a substantial measure of its political power in a single stroke.”
That got even Khenti’s attention. He looked to Alcadizzar, who’d turned pensive once more.
“What would you require of me in return?”
“For the union to be consummated, you must pledge yourself to the temple,” Neferata said. “Lahmia will have its high priestess, and Khemri its priest king.”
The prince sighed inwardly. “How long would such an initiation take?”
Neferata felt a rush of triumph. She knew him better than he knew himself. “That is up to you, of course,” she said. “For most initiates, the path to the temple’s highest rank is a long and difficult one. What might take them a lifetime, you could accomplish in a decade or less.”
“A decade!” Khenti turned to the prince. “Khemri needs you now, great one. This… this is too much!”
“Khenti is perhaps right,” Neferata said slowly. Her eyes never left Alcadizzar’s. “It is a great deal to ask of any man. But the potential is equally great, is it not?”
The prince glanced at Khenti’s worried face. “What if I refuse?”
“Then your time here in Lahmia will be at an end,” she replied.
“I’m… free to go?”
“Of course,” Neferata said. “The choice is yours, oh prince. Do as you think best for your city and your people.”
Khenti gripped Alcadizzar’s shoulders and turned the younger man to face him. “You can’t seriously be considering this,” he said. “It’s over! You’re free! Come with me now, and we can be on the road to Rasetra by dawn!”
Alcadizzar stared down at his uncle, and Neferata could see the longing in his eyes. For a moment, her heart went out to him; she knew all too well what it was like to live as a prisoner, trapped in a gilded cage. One day he will thank me, though, she told herself. This is not just for me, or even for him, but for all of Nehekhara.
“What sort of king would I be if I put my own selfishness ahead of my city’s future?” Alcadizzar said. His voice was heavy with regret, but he gripped his uncle’s arms tightly. “Khemri has survived for decades without me. It will last for a few years more.”
The prince turned to Neferata and bowed his head. “I accept your offer,” he told her. “Let Khemri and Lahmia be united once more.”
Neferata rose from her chair and joined Alcadizzar. Beneath the mask, her cheeks were wet with crimson tears as she placed a hand on his cheek. His skin felt hot beneath her fingers. She could feel the blood coursing through the flesh beneath. The thirst cut through her, slicing deep into her heart.
“As you wish, oh prince,” she said softly.
THREE
Deadlock
Nagashizzar, in the 98th year of Tahoth the Wise
(-1300 Imperial Reckoning)
Moving as though in a dream, the barbarian witch crept towards the cavern wall. The rough stone had been scribed with angular northern runes in complex spiral patterns that radiated from the centre of the wall and covered an area broad enough for two men to stand abreast. Akatha paused before the strange sigil, her grey-tinged lips working as she murmured sibilant words of power. Arcane symbols had been painted on her cheeks and down the length of her arms in sinuous patterns; they shone a pale and ghostly blue through the fine layer of ash that had been smeared over her skin. Tiny charms of yellowed bone had been woven into her tangled, soot-stained braids, clattering softly with each measured tread. A faint, greenish glow emanated from the whites of her eyes.
Akatha raised her right hand and reached out palm-first towards the wall. Slowly, warily, as though testing the heat of a roaring furnace, she brought her hand close to the stone. Her eyes flickered shut.
She stood that way for several long moments, muttering the words of power. Suddenly, her body stiffened. Her eyes flew open, and she retreated swiftly and silently from the wall, back to where Nagash and her kinsmen waited.
The cavern was small and low-ceilinged, its floor sloping slightly downwards towards the rune-marked wall and the mountain’s distant core. Nagash hadn’t known it existed until just the week before; it had been separated from the fortress’ passageways by little more than a few feet of solid rock at one part of the chamber’s western wall. Akatha had discovered it during a casting of runes, as she’d sought to divine the invaders’ next move.
Nagash stood just inside the narrow opening his labourers had dug into the chamber. At his back stood Bragadh, Diarid and Thestus, as well as a score of Bragadh’s chosen warriors. Like Akatha, the warlord and his men were pallid and moved with an eerie, almost dreamlike grace. Their eyes shone faintly in the dimness, just as hers did, evidence of the potent elixir that Nagash had created to extend their life spans. Based on the same formula he’d used to create his immortals centuries ago, this elixir drew its power from a combination of stolen life force and the dust of the burning stone. It lent the northmen fearsome strength and vitality, though Nagash suspected that, once enough of the dust had collected in their bones, it would begin to change them in unpredictable ways. So long as they could take orders and lead their men in battle, he would continue to make use of them.
Hundreds of Bragadh’s best fighting men waited along the passageways just outside the cavern, listening intently for the call to action. They all knew that, three levels below, the ratmen were launching yet another howling assault on the bastions protecting mine shaft number six.
Akatha approached the necromancer. Daring greatly, the witch met Nagash’s coldly glowing eyes. “They are nearly through,” she whispered, her voice flat and cold. “A few minutes, perhaps. No more.”
Nagash raised a leathery hand and waved her aside. As much as her insolence irritated him, her sorcerous abilities had proven unexpectedly useful in the war against the ratmen. The barbarians, he’d discovered, had a long history of dealing with the creatures, and the arcane traditions of Akatha’s extinct sisterhood contained several rituals that were designed to combat them. The necromancer’s pride prevented him from stooping so low as to learn the barbarian rites for himself, and so the damned witch continued to survive.
The war beneath the mountain had raged for twenty-five galling years and showed no signs of ending. The ratmen were drawn like moths to the burning stone, and no matter how many thousands of the creatures he slew, there were always more to take their place. Losses on both sides had been staggering. The sheer amount of resources Nagash had expended thus far filled him with cold rage. The massive invasion force he’d carefully built for centuries was being squandered against a never-ending tide of vermin. When the war finally ended, it would take years, perhaps decades, to marshal another force capable of destroying Nehekhara. If he did not know for a fact that he’d broken the gods of his old homeland, he might have suspected some divine power bent on thwarting his dreams of revenge.
A faint sound echoed across the cavern—a scratching scrabbling sound that Nagash and the barbarians had come to know all too well. With neither side willing to concede defeat, the course of the war had been measured in tunnels seized and levels taken. Passageways and branch-tunnels leading to the all-importan
t mine shafts had been fortified by both sides, with cunning barricades and redoubts designed to hinder an enemy advance. Smaller tunnels were filled with rubble or sown with vicious traps to slaughter the unwary, forcing teams of sappers to reopen them in preparation for a major attack. Control of the deeps ebbed and flowed from one week to the next. Conquests were made and then lost again, as one side or the other exhausted itself in a punishing attack and then lacked the strength to hold on to what it had taken. In-between major assaults the two armies would pause for weeks or even months at a time, staging punishing raids against their enemy’s forwards positions while they rebuilt their shattered forces.
From time to time, the two armies would try to break the deadlock with cunning stratagems. Most often they involved the digging of new tunnels to strike at the enemy from an unexpected direction—just as the ratmen were attempting now. The assault on mine shaft six was a diversion, meant to pin down the necromancer’s troops so that another contingent of warriors could emerge behind them and cut them off.
It was a strategy that had served the ratmen well since the first day of the war, and one they returned to time and again when their frontal assaults had been stymied for more than a few months at a time. The tactic was effective because the creatures could dig tunnels with a speed and skill that beggared the imagination; by the same token, it was also largely predictable.
Nagash had known this was coming for several months now; he’d planned for it, in fact, reinforcing the defences around mine shaft six with every warrior he could spare and grinding down one frenzied assault after another. When the tempo of the attacks tapered off, he set Akatha to watching for the signs that the enemy was attempting another tunnel. This time he meant to turn their favourite tactic against them.