The Rise of Nagash

by Mike Lee

  The liche rode north and east through the barren foothills of the Brittle Peaks, making for the river of blood as fast as his skeletal horse could carry him. Nine black-armoured wights galloped in his wake. They were all that remained of the hundred that had ridden into Khemri with him, just a few months before. The others—along with the rest of his army—had been sacrificed on the Great Trade Road to buy his escape. From the flashes of green light that lit the undersides of the clouds, and the brittle thunder of detonations to the south, the fighting had yet to abate.

  The dark riders galloped across a stretch of treacherous, rocky flatland, then reached the base of another low, rounded hill. Arkhan hissed, gripping the reins and putting his heels to the horse’s flanks, as if the mount still had flesh and nerves to respond to his urgings. The undead horse lunged up the slope, sinew creaking and heavy bones knocking hollowly together. Though slower than living horses, the undead creatures were tireless and strong. Arkhan had ridden day and night, racing the receding gloom, and meant to keep on going until their hooves splintered and their leg bones split. Quatar and the Gates of the Dead were closed to him, so he would have to take the longer, more circuitous route through the wasteland north and east of the great river. That would give the forces east of the Brittle Peaks a sizeable lead in the race to the fortress.

  The army that Arkhan had led from Nagashizzar many months before had been far smaller than the mighty invasion force he had commanded against Alcadizaar: barely sixty thousand strong, and composed of spearmen, archers and swift-moving cavalry. He had been compelled to divide the force even further once it had reached Lahmia. Nagash’s orders had been explicit: slaughter the last survivors of the Nehekaran people and capture Alcadizaar within six months, and return the defeated king to Nagashizzar before the new moon of the seventh. And so, from Lahmia, he’d despatched two of his lieutenants and twenty thousand warriors to head southwest, to wipe out the last dregs of humanity in the plague-ravaged cities of Lybaras and Rasetra. Then, at Quatar, after passing the ruins of Mahrak and scouring the Valley of Kings, Arkhan had sent another lieutenant and ten thousand warriors south to wipe out the desert dwellers at Bhagar and the city of Ka-Sabar. At Khemri, once Alcadizaar’s pitiful army had been destroyed, a fourth lieutenant had taken ten thousand warriors north to destroy Numas, and then two smaller detachments were sent south and west to deal with Bel Aliad and Zandri by the sea. He’d heard nothing from his subordinates since then, but had no reason to believe that they had failed in their tasks. Now he imagined every one of them doing just the same as he: racing across the empty land, avoiding the wrath of the risen priest kings where they could, and thinking of the power now left unguarded at the Undying King’s mountain fortress.

  Hooves drumming the dead earth, the dark riders crested the hill. On the far side was a long, gentle slope, and beyond, perhaps a mile or so away, was the dark ribbon of the great river.

  Arkhan and his bodyguard pressed on, their mounts gathering speed as they swept down the rocky slope. As he went, he studied the horizon to the north and west, looking for telltales of battle, or the dust trail of an army on the march. If the force sent to Numas had survived, it stood to reason that it would be following much the same course as he. But try as he might, Arkhan’s burning gaze could not penetrate the gloom that lingered past the river’s opposite bank.

  The wide river shone a glossy black in the darkness. Once the source of all life in Nehekara, now the River Vitae ran red and thick as clotting blood. Arkhan urged his mount to greater speed, spurring it not with his heels now, but the lash of his will. The wights flogged their horses as well, filling the air with their wailing cries.

  The dark riders thundered down the slope. As they approached the turgid waters, Arkhan raised a bony fist and began to chant. The invocation hissed past his jagged teeth, calling to the magic coursing through the aether. The skeletal horses leapt ahead, their hooves flashing over the dusty ground. Faster and faster they went, and the spaces between hoofbeats lengthened, until they scarcely touched the earth at all.

  In moments, the dark riders reached the foot of the slope and onto the reeking bank of the river. Still gathering speed, the horses plunged into the river—but instead of sinking, they seemed to glide across the surface of the poisoned water. Their hoofbeats left curls of glistening vapour in their wake. Swift as a loosed arrow, light as the desert wind, the dark riders crossed the wide river in a matter of moments.

  Arkhan reined in his mount on the far bank. The liche slumped in the saddle, his senses reeling. The invocation had been something of an improvisation on his part, and the strain had been profound. His wight bodyguards formed a protective ring about him, their glowing eyes searching the shadows along the hillsides to the north.

  The liche allowed himself a few moments to regain his wits before pressing on. Silence stretched upon the riverbank. Far in the distance, a jackal howled in the wastes.

  There was a faint creak of sinew. One of the wights stirred slightly, its skull turning to the northwest. Arkhan was alert in an instant. With a thought, he focused on the wight and saw through its eyes.

  For several moments, there was nothing to see. Arkhan grew puzzled, unsure what the wight thought it had seen. But just as he was about to draw back, the shadows along the hilltop seemed to ripple.

  Arkhan hissed a furious curse, his bony hand reaching for the iron sword at his hip as the first arrows went flitting past.

  The enemy broke from the hillside shadows with the first volley: a score of skeletal horse archers, garbed in the black leather armour of Nagashizzar. The revenants fired as they rode, sending a steady rain of black shafts sleeting through the circle of dark riders.

  Snarling, Arkhan wheeled his horse about. An arrow thudded into the saddle, just behind his hip, while another blurred past less than a finger length from his eyes. He felt one of his wights take an arrow through the arm; another was struck in the side. The liche flung out his hand and sent a volley of his own howling through the oncoming horsemen. Three of the horse archers were torn apart by a stream of fiery darts, sending glowing fragments of bone tumbling over the ground.

  More arrows snapped through the air in reply, but by then the dark riders were on the move, galloping upslope into the hills to the northeast. Arkhan fought to contain his fury. The horse archers were skirmishers, likely covering the flank of a larger force—the detachment from Numas, or possibly Zandri—just beyond the hills to the north. And now their master knew exactly where he was.

  Arkhan crested the hill just ahead of his bodyguards. On the far side, the hill descended into a winding gully, thick with shadow. Already, the liche could hear faint sounds of pursuit echoing from beyond the hills to the northwest, as more skeletal horsemen joined in the hunt. With the river to his right, the only direction he could go was north and east, which made the enemy’s task that much easier. But the skeletons were not infallible; if he moved fast and used the gullies to his advantage, there was still a chance of escape.

  Once again, the liche began to chant. The aether was still suffused with necromantic power in the wake of Nagash’s ritual, but the torrent of energy was difficult to control. The invocation was not as well contained as before, sending waves of agony coursing through his skeletal frame, but it was enough. The dark riders’ undead steeds raced ahead, coursing like quicksilver down the narrow path. The pursuing riders vanished from sight.

  Arkhan sustained the incantation as long as he dared, until it felt as though his bones would splinter from the strain. The riders wound about the feet of the low hills, working their way alternately north and east in hopes of throwing the enemy off their trail and forcing them to abandon their pursuit.

  But the dark riders’ respite was short-lived. Soon the hills echoed with the clatter of hooves as more and more enemy cavalry units joined in the hunt. Arkhan listened to the sounds of pursuit and tried to puzzle out their relative positions. As far as he could tell, the hunters were spread out in a rough semicir
cle some two miles across and perhaps a mile or so behind him. All it would take would be for one enemy rider to spot them, and the semicircle would start to close around them like a pair of jaws. They had to stay ahead of the cordon and keep to cover, or all was lost.

  For two more miles, their luck held. Arkhan followed one narrow hill-path after another—until, without warning, the riders emerged from a steep-sided gully into a wide, sloping plain several miles across. The north edge of the plain was bounded by a tall, rocky hill, while to the south the liche saw only broken, treacherous ground that sloped steeply back towards the river. Off to the east, perhaps two miles distant, the hills crowded in again, forming a valley that rose up and out of sight.

  Arkhan snarled a curse. Two miles, and no cover—a bad proposition, to be sure, but there wasn’t a better one to be had. Hissing between his teeth, he led his wights onto the plain and then began to chant.

  Almost at once he found himself struggling with the incantation. The energies of the spell twisted in his grasp like an adder, threatening to destroy him, but he would not relent. Heat began to build along his bones like irons held in a fire, but, step by step, the horses began to pick up speed. Within moments, the riders were flying across the plain.

  The valley drew nearer. Arkhan’s bones sizzled. Wisps of foul-smelling smoke seeped from the seams in his armour. The agony was terrible, but he would not relent. Each second carried them further to their goal.

  They were only a few hundred yards from the mouth of the valley when the enemy found them. There were no shouts of triumph, or braying of horns; simply a swelling rumble of hooves behind the dark riders as more and more of the pursuing cavalry poured eagerly onto the plain.

  Arkhan could feel his concentration slipping. More and more power was leaking past the edges of the spell and scorching his body and soul. It felt as though his bones might fly apart at any moment. He held the incantation together for two seconds more, then relinquished his grip. The change in speed was sudden and dramatic, but just a moment later the dark riders entered the mouth of the valley and once more vanished from sight.

  Once inside, Arkhan saw that the valley curved slightly northward and appeared to narrow at its far end. Past that, they would have more options, more opportunities to throw the enemy off their trail. Or so the liche chose to believe.

  The undead horses lunged up the slope, their hooves kicking up thick plumes of sand and dust. Arkhan knew that the enemy would be pushing their own mounts for all they were worth, trying to catch sight of him again. It would all come down to a matter of seconds, he thought. Part of him was tempted to try the incantation again, but he knew that he’d already pushed his luck too far. Another attempt could well destroy him. Yet would that be any worse than what would happen if the enemy caught him?

  Arkhan weighed the risks. It proved to be his undoing.

  He did not see the enemy soldiers until it was far too late. Ranks of spearmen waited at the valley’s narrow end, closing it off completely. Their shields and their tattered rags were covered in layers of thick dust, and their statue-like stillness rendered them nearly invisible in the gloom. Stunned, Arkhan reined in just a hundred yards short of the enemy battle-line.

  More dust and sand exploded around the dark riders. Undead skirmishers clattered to their feet all around Arkhan, brandishing barbed javelins and tarnished khopeshes.

  Arkhan’s wights circled protectively around their master. Dark swords, glimmering with fell magics, hissed from their sheaths. The liche glanced back the way he’d come, only to see the first of the pursuing cavalry galloping into view.

  There was nowhere to run. Though Arkhan still clutched his battered, iron blade, he had little desire to use it. The thought of a glorious, last stand quickly lost its savour when one knew exactly what awaited them in the realms of the dead.

  A change of tactics was in order. With an angry hiss, the liche put away his sword. He nudged his horse forward, out of the protective ring of his bodyguards, and took a few steps towards the nearest skirmisher. Arkhan leaned down, peering into the pinpoints of light that served as the skeleton’s eyes.

  ‘Send me someone with a working set of lungs,’ he said, speaking to the liche that lay behind the skirmisher’s glowing stare. ‘I have a proposition to discuss.’

  Arkhan saw almost at once that the situation was not quite as grim as it appeared. The pursuing horsemen had filled the western end of the valley, but had come to an abrupt stop well outside bowshot from the battle-line of camouflaged spearmen. At once, the liche realized that he hadn’t stumbled into the middle of one army, but two. The spearmen to the east were likely part of the force he’d sent to Numas, while the horsemen to the west had originally been sent to Zandri.

  It also suggested that the ambush he’d stumbled into might not have been meant for him at all. That was good, Arkhan thought. It gave him more leverage. He sent one of his wights back down the valley to call for a representative from the milling horsemen.

  The two mouthpieces arrived within minutes of one another. From the east came a heavy cavalryman on a snarling, black cadaver of a horse, while from the west rode a horse archer with skin like saddle leather and a few wisps of black hair floating about his rotted pate. Arkhan left his wights behind and walked his horse down the valley to a point about mid-way between the two forces.

  ‘Lord Khamenes,’ Arkhan said, greeting the heavy cavalryman—or rather, the liche who controlled him. ‘And Lord Shiwat,’ he said to the horse archer. ‘We find ourselves in interesting times.’

  The heavy cavalryman tilted his helmeted head quizzically. Leathery flesh creaked as the man’s mouth struggled to form words. ‘You… have… no… army,’ Lord Khamenes said. Whether it was an observation or an opening gambit to the negotiations, Arkhan could not tell.

  ‘We were beset on all sides when the ritual failed,’ Arkhan replied. ‘The risen dead turned on us, and upon one another. No doubt the same happened at Numas.’

  The cavalryman made a growling sound that might have been a sneer. ‘Yes. But we… fought… them off. You… did not.’

  Now it was Arkhan’s turn to sneer. ‘You were born in Khemri. You recall all the great kings of legend, going back to Settra himself?’ The liche pointed to the south. ‘They’re still fighting each other, out on the trade road. All of them, plus scores of petty rulers you’ve never heard of. And I was in the middle of it.’

  ‘I scarcely fought at all,’ said Lord Shiwat. The withered horse archer glanced from Arkhan to the heavy cavalryman and back again. ‘Zandri was empty when I arrived. The survivors of the plague had taken to the sea. So I left.’

  Arkhan eyed the horse archer. Was Lord Shiwat subtly suggesting that he now possessed the larger army? It was possible, Arkhan thought, but unlikely. Shiwat had never been known for subtlety—or for much of anything else, for that matter. When Nagash had needed new generals in the wake of his failed invasion, he had tried to summon his immortals—men like Arkhan, from the old days at Khemri—back from the realms of the dead. But most of those dread warriors no longer had a body to return to. Their flesh and bones had been burned to ash by the vengeful priest kings at the end of the war. Only a handful of immortals had escaped total destruction and were able to rise again: most were lesser souls like Shiwat and Khamenes, who were too obscure and unimportant in those days to catch the priest kings’ attention.

  And then there was Raamket, the Red Lord, and his companion Aten-heru. They had been among the wickedest and most powerful of Nagash’s lieutenants, and when they had fallen, some ninety years after Nagash’s defeat at Mahrak, their bodies had been preserved as trophies rather than burned. Arkhan had sent Raamket with the detachment to Ka-Sabar, and Aten-heru with the force headed to Rasetra. He would have given much to know where they were now.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Khamenes asked Arkhan. ‘The wasteland is no place for a small group of riders.’

  ‘No worse than Quatar and the Gates of the Dawn,’ Arkhan replied.
‘The dead there remember me well. It’s possible I could have slipped past them in time, but ironically, that is the one thing I can ill afford right now. Nagash is no more, and all his secrets are free for the taking.’

  ‘The Undying King has fallen?’ Khamenes said.

  ‘Do not dissemble,’ Arkhan snarled. ‘You know it, as well as I. Even Shiwat felt it, clear on the far side of Nehekara. Something happened. I don’t know what. But Nagash is gone.’

  ‘Then how is it we are still here?’ Shiwat asked.

  Arkhan turned to the horse archer. ‘A good question,’ he said, trying to conceal the surprise from his voice. ‘I do not know for sure. Perhaps the power of the great ritual was enough to give our forms permanence. Nagash may have planned it that way all along.’ Privately though, Arkhan doubted it. He couldn’t imagine Nagash giving up that kind of power over one of his subordinates. More than likely, the effect had been unintentional.

  ‘And the others?’ Khamenes said.

  Arkhan shrugged. ‘Those that died during the plague did not last once the ritual ended. The magic binding their souls was all that kept them in the land of the living. But the older ones—those interred with all the preparations and rituals of the Mortuary Cult—they were more resilient. They provided a strong vessel to house a resurrected soul. It’s possible that they might endure forever.’

  ‘With no one to control them,’ Shiwat observed.

  Khamenes glared at Arkhan. ‘Which is why you are so desperate to reach Nagashizzar.’

  ‘Of course,’ Arkhan replied. ‘Nagash’s secrets are there for the taking. I expect that Raamket and the other eastern lieutenants are hastening there even now.’

  ‘But you want the throne for yourself,’ Khamenes hissed.

  Arkhan glared back at the cavalryman. ‘I have no intention of serving Raamket or anyone else, in this life or the next.’

  The heavy horseman nodded slowly. ‘Nor I,’ Khamenes agreed. ‘Which presents us with a problem.’