[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  “The priests of Asaph and Geheb have not been especially diligent in cleansing the camps of sickness,” he said. “I have complained to the hierophants, but they claim that their priests are occupied with other matters.”

  “Such as trying to undermine my rule,” Nagash growled. The temples of the city had been a constant nuisance since his ascension. They sent elders to the Grand Assemblies, calling on him to relinquish Neferem and agree to step aside as soon as Sukhet reached adulthood. Their acolytes spread rumours among the populace that the gods were displeased with his rule, and would punish Khemri unless he was forced out. No doubt they were taking their orders from the Hieratic Council at Mahrak, which had a vested interest in maintaining its authority over Nehekharan affairs. If he thought he could get away with it, Nagash would have gladly sent his warriors to clean out the temples and put the damned priests to work in the slave camp, but unfortunately the council still held too much power and influence over the other great cities, and so for the moment he had to endure their interference.

  A chill wracked the king’s powerful frame. He folded his arms tighter and scowled down at the pyramid’s foundations.

  “Any workers who perish, especially those who die at the excavation site, are to be added to the pyramid’s inner structure. Bury them in the substrate. Mortar the walls with their blood and bones. Exactly how you do it isn’t important, so long as their deaths are part of the pyramid’s construction. Do you understand?”

  The vizier nodded. Of all the king’s vassals, Arkhan had the strongest grasp of the principles of necromancy. The death energies contained within the pyramid would help attune the structure to Nagash’s invocations, and make it more receptive to the faint winds of dark magic.

  “It will be done,” he said, bowing once more.

  Satisfied, Nagash was about to take his leave and return to his studies at the palace when he caught sight of Khefru hurrying up the steps to the overseer’s platform. Like Arkhan, the young priest had also been the recipient of the king’s sorcerous elixir, though in Khefru’s case he participated only at the king’s express command. The servant’s reluctance baffled Nagash, but it was clear that Khefru’s ravaged health had benefited as much as the rest from the infusion of sorcerous vigour.

  The young priest approached the king and bowed. Nagash studied the man intently.

  “Why aren’t you at the palace?” he asked. Among other things, Khefru was responsible for keeping watch over Neferem and her son, who were isolated from one another in different parts of the palace. Khefru paused for a moment to catch his breath. Under the harsh light of the sun, his skin was a pale, unhealthy yellow.

  “An advance party arrived in the city an hour ago, with word that a royal delegation from Lahmia was on the way. King Lamasheptra is expected to arrive by late afternoon, and will request an audience at this evening’s Grand Assembly,” he said.

  The king’s expression darkened.

  “Where, no doubt, Lamasheptra will insist upon seeing his sister Neferem, and her son.”

  “The advance party didn’t specifically mention such a request,” the young priest said carefully. Nagash glared at the man.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he snarled. “Why else would the Lahmian king leave his flesh-pots and travel halfway across the country?” A faint shiver gripped Nagash’s frame, which he quelled with gritted teeth. For a moment he wondered if perhaps there was time to feed before meeting with Lamasheptra, but the notion smacked too much of weakness, and he forced it aside. “Frankly, this comes as no surprise,” he continued. “It was only a matter of time before Lamasheptra managed to gather his courage and come here to test the strength of the old alliances.” He glowered at Khefru. “How many warriors has he brought?”

  “A handful of Ushabti and a squadron of horsemen. No more,” the priest said with a shrug.

  Nagash nodded. “Then he won’t be planning on doing anything reckless. Very well,” he said, waving impatiently at Khefru. “Inform Neferem and Sukhet that they will be attending the Grand Assembly this evening. Who knows, perhaps the sight of her son after so many years will break Neferem’s resolve at long last. That would almost make the evening’s farce worthwhile.”

  The Lahmian delegation arrived at Settra’s Court with a fanfare of trumpets and the rhythmic tinkle of ankle bells, accompanied by the whisper of silk and the patter of soft flesh on polished marble. Conversations stopped and heads turned as half a dozen dancing girls wove their way down the gleaming aisle, swirling through twisting ribbons of orange, yellow and red like beguiling sun-spirits. Jaded noblemen from all over Nehekhara forgot what they’d been saying a moment before as they caught tantalising glimpses of bared shoulders, rounded hips and dark, flashing eyes.

  Behind the dancers came the Lahmian king, striding along the aisle in a blissful cloud of narcotic incense. Lamasheptra was lean and graceful, his steps as light and swift as the dancers that preceded him. He was a young, handsome man, little more than a child. The Kings of Lahmia married very late in life, claiming that they served their goddess best by drinking deep of all the decadence their city had to offer. Lamasheptra still had many decades of worship left in him, with a smooth, unlined face the colour of dark honey and limpid brown eyes. He had a sharp nose and a full, sensuous mouth framed by a close-cropped beard, and tightly curled black hair that hung well past his shoulders. Unlike the custom of most young nobles, Lamasheptra wore soft, flowing yellow silk robes that hung open at the chest, and patterned silk trousers.

  Gold rings glittered on his soft fingers, and an earring set with a gleaming ruby hung from his left earlobe. The assembled nobility stared at the Lahmian king as though he were some kind of exotic animal, and Lamasheptra revelled in the attention.

  Not too long ago the king’s court was an echoing, empty space, even during King Thutep’s Grand Assemblies. Now, the space was as full as it had ever been. Throngs of newly raised nobility, bedecked in gaudy kilts and half-capes, stood and gaped at the Lahmian procession, while the ambassadors of Numas, Rasetra, Lybaras and Ka-Sabar stood in tight, apprehensive groups and whispered amongst themselves. The first emissaries had begun arriving within a month after the king’s victory over Zandri, and they had listened fearfully as Nagash instructed them on the new state of affairs in Nehekhara. After what had happened to Zandri, none dared gainsay the man some called the Usurper.

  At the far end of the great hall, gathered like a pack of baleful jackals, stood the king’s chosen, his viziers and captains, those who served him first and best. They watched Lamasheptra and his retinue approach with the sharp stares of predators. In their midst, perched upon the dark throne of Settra the Great, sat Nagash the king. His eyes were intent upon the approaching Lahmians, but his face was coldly neutral.

  A dozen steps from the dais the swirling dancers stopped and bowed, their silken ribbons rippling sinuously around them like tongues of flame. Lamasheptra passed among them and approached to the foot of the stone steps, so close that Arkhan and Shepsu-hur had to bow and give way for the king to pass.

  Lamasheptra spread his hands in greeting and gave Nagash a dazzling, practiced smile.

  “Greetings, cousin,” he said to the Usurper. “I am Lamasheptra, fourth of the name, son of the great Lamasharazz. It is an honour to meet you at long last.”

  “Then I am pleased for you,” Nagash said coolly. His smile did not reach the depths of his dark eyes. “It has been some time since the sons of Lahmia attended upon the King of the Living City. I had begun to believe that you and your father meant to offer me insult.” Looks of shock flitted across the faces of the dancers, but Lamasheptra would not be baited.

  “It is a long journey to the Living City, cousin,” the Lahmian king said smoothly. “You may as well say the slow-moving river or the sandy road means to mock you.” Nervous laughter rose from the crowd, earning warning stares from the king’s chosen. Lamasheptra pretended not to notice. “I would not dream of offending a cousin of mine, especially one w
ho has earned for himself such a fearsome throne.”

  “Well said,” Nagash replied, his voice full of soft menace. “What, then, is the reason for this timely visit?”

  “What else, cousin? Duty and loyalty,” Lamasheptra said, “and love of family. Before my blessed father died, he made me swear before the goddess to offer his blessings to his nephew Sukhet, whom he never knew. He also bade me give his farewells to his sister, Neferem. And so, to honour my father, I have made this long journey.”

  “For Neferem, and for Sukhet, but not for me, your cousin?” Nagash asked.

  Lamasheptra laughed, as though Nagash were the soul of wit. “As though I could ignore the great Priest King of Khemri! Naturally, I have come to honour you, and assure you of Lahmia’s continued esteem.”

  “Nothing would please me more,” Nagash replied. “For centuries, Khemri has treasured Lahmia’s esteem greater than any other city’s. I assume, then, that Lahmia will join the other cities of Nehekhara in providing a small token of this esteem.” The Lahmians smile did not waver.

  “One cannot put a price on esteem, cousin,” he said. “What sort of token would satisfy you?”

  “A thousand slaves,” Nagash said with a shrug. “Surely a modest gift for such a wealthy city.”

  “A thousand slaves a year?” Lamasheptra asked with a frown.

  “Certainly not,” Nagash replied with a chuckle. “A thousand slaves a month, to help with the great work I am building in Khemri’s necropolis, and in the interests of peace, of course.”

  “Peace. Of course,” the Lahmian replied, “and a smaller price than Zandri was required to pay, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed so,” Nagash said. “I’m pleased to see you understand.” The Lahmian nodded.

  “Never fear, cousin. I understand a great many things,” he said. Then he nodded to the lesser throne at Nagash’s right. “What I do not see is my noble aunt and her son. I have heard so many stories of Neferem’s legendary beauty, and I have longed to witness it for myself.” He bowed slightly in the direction of the throne. “I have a gift for her from the people of Lahmia, to show their continued love and devotion for the Daughter of the Sun. I trust you will permit me to present it to her?”

  “We are always pleased to receive gifts from the great cities,” Nagash said dismissively. “Bring it forth, and let us see it.”

  Lamasheptra smiled broadly and beckoned to his retinue. A small figure slipped from the midst of the bodyguards, courtiers and slaves and hurried to the base of the dais. Nagash saw that it was a young boy, scarcely more than fifteen years of age, but he wore the bright yellow robes of a priest of Ptra. The boy stood at Lamasheptra’s side and bowed deeply to Nagash.

  The King of Khemri glowered at the boy. “Is this some kind of jest?” he asked.

  “An understandable reaction, cousin,” Lamasheptra said with a chuckle, “but I assure you, Nebunefer here is a fully sanctified priest. The priests at Mahrak proclaim him to be the most gifted young man of his generation, and that the Great Father has a special destiny in mind for him. For now, though, he will wait upon the queen and see to her spiritual needs, since she is unable to attend the rites at the city temple.”

  Nagash fought to conceal his irritation. The Lahmian fop was a clever one, he had to admit, but what were his motives? Had the Hieratic Council bribed him to send their little spy into the palace, or was Lamasheptra a willing ally of the damned priests?

  He could refuse the gift, of course, but doing so would suggest weakness, and Mahrak would simply send one after another until they forced his hand. Nagash eyed the boy suspiciously. Nebunefer’s face was open and confident, full of the self-assurance of youth. The king wondered what the boy’s blood would taste like, and smiled.

  “Welcome, boy,” Nagash said to Nebunefer. “Serve the queen well, and in time, you will be rewarded.”

  Nebunefer bowed once more. Lamasheptra’s eyes glittered with triumph.

  “Where is my beloved sister and her son?” he asked. “I had thought to find her here, presiding over her guests and loyal subjects, as good rulers ought.”

  Nagash considered Lamasheptra for a long, silent moment. Then he raised his right hand and beckoned to the shadows behind the throne.

  Whispers rose from the darkness, followed by the sound of shuffling feet. The first person to appear was not Neferem, nor even Sukhet, but an old man, limping and broken, as though his bones filled his skin like shards of clay. His head was bald and scarred, his lips slack and twitching, but his blue eyes were sharp and fever-bright. Ghazid, the last Grand Vizier of Khemri, turned and beckoned to the shadows like a child calling for his playmates. He was ignorant of the staring faces in the crowd. The looks of horror and pity had no meaning for him any more. Nagash had spared his life on the night that he had buried his brother alive, but not out of mercy. He had given the old man into the hands of his vassals, who had tortured him inventively for many years. Age and great pain had worn away his once-sharp mind, until he was little more than a child in an old man’s body. Then Nagash had returned him to Neferem and Sukhet as a gift.

  Ghazid beckoned a tall, noble-looking young man out into the light. He was clad in noble finery, with a kilt and cape of purest samite and a prince’s golden headdress on his brow. Sukhet had the handsome features of his father and the fierce demeanour of his illustrious grandfather, with piercing eyes and a strong, square chin. Gasps rose from the assembled crowd at the sight of him. Even Lamasheptra seemed struck by the young man’s regal bearing.

  Sukhet, son of Thutep, carried himself with great dignity and poise. He stepped past the great throne as though it were empty and descended the stone steps until he stood before the Lahmian king. A ripple of unease passed through the king’s chosen at the sight of the young prince. Arkhan in particular eyed Sukhet as though he were a form of especially venomous snake.

  Lamasheptra smiled warmly at Sukhet, apparently ignorant of the apprehensive stares of the noblemen around him. He started to speak, but the words dried up in his throat as he saw the Daughter of the Sun emerge from the darkness behind Nagash’s throne.

  She wore a simple gown of purest white, cinched by a girdle of leather and burnished copper that hung lightly upon her hips. Her long, black hair had been washed with scented oils and pulled back in a thick braid that hung nearly to her waist. The queen’s green eyes were vivid in their kohl-darkened orbits, but no other balms or tinctures had been added to her face. Her feet were bare, as was her brow: the heavy golden cape and wondrous headdress of the queen had been left behind, along with the gold bracelets and rings that she had brought with her from far-off Lahmia. Neferem, Queen of the Living City and Daughter of the Sun, cloaked herself in anguish and loss. Her face was a pale mask, beautiful but still, like the image carved upon a sarcophagus.

  The queen was not the young maiden she once had been. Life and loss had left their mark upon her features, ageing her well beyond her years. Gasps filled the echoing court at the sight of her, and even Lamasheptra was taken aback. The king staggered a half-step back, as though the sight of her were a physical blow. For the briefest instant, his brown eyes glanced at the man upon Khemri’s throne, and then slowly, reverently, the King of Lahmia sank to his knees before Neferem.

  In a rippling whisper of cloth, the rest of the court followed suit. Some knelt gracefully, while others simply fell to their knees in wonder. Within moments the only men standing were the king’s chosen, who looked to one another with shifting, apprehensive stares, and the queen’s son, Sukhet.

  The prince turned, and saw his mother for the first time in nearly a decade.

  Nagash studied the pair over steepled fingers and fought to stifle his anger. This had been a mistake. He should have arranged a private meeting between Lamasheptra and Sukhet instead of permitting this spectacle. He’d thought to demonstrate his control over Thutep’s wife and heir by allowing them a brief moment at court, but he hadn’t counted on the enduring superstition and sentimentality o
f the populace.

  Sukhet stared into his mother’s eyes, and in that moment he forgot himself. All dignity fled as he rushed to his mother and reached for her hands. Neferem reached for him as though in a dream, a slight frown of bemusement penetrating her shock. The prince took her hands in his and touched his forehead to them in a sign of reverence.

  The King of Khemri paid no mind to the maudlin scene. His eyes were on Lamasheptra alone. The Lahmian was watching mother and son with an awestruck expression that could not quite hide the calculating look in his dark eyes.

  At that moment Nagash realised that Sukhet had to die.

  They came for him in the dead of night, when the rest of the palace was sleeping. Sukhet’s cell was two levels beneath the sprawling palace, in a cramped chamber formerly reserved for storing expensive spices and wines. The entire section had been abandoned decades ago, back in Khetep’s time. Only Khefru and Ghazid came and went through its darkened corridors these days, and Nagash’s servant alone had the key to Sukhet’s chamber.

  Khefru led the way, holding an oil lamp in one trembling hand. The priest moved unerringly through the labyrinthine hallways, until he finally came upon an unmarked door of heavy, scarred teak. Khefru fumbled in his robes for several long moments before producing a long rod of tarnished bronze that he fit into the door’s massive wood and bronze lock.

  The mechanism turned with a loud clatter. As Khefru started to pull the door open, Arkhan the Black stepped forward and shoved the servant roughly aside, sending the oil lamp crashing to the floor. Behind the vizier, Raamket and Shepsu-hur rushed silently into the cell.

  The chamber was small, barely twelve paces by six. A narrow bed was set against one long wall, with a cedar chest at the end for the prince’s clothes. Opposite the bed stood a narrow table with a single chair and a small oil lamp, where the prince would take his meals or read books brought to him from the library. Though he was allowed to walk the grounds of the palace within carefully proscribed limits, the small room had been Sukhet’s home for nearly ten years.