[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  While they waited, the rumour spread that Rakh-amn-hotep, the Rasetran king, had been killed by an arrow, fighting alongside the rearguard outside Quatar. Hekhmenukep, the Priest King of Lybaras, still clung to life, but none knew for how long. The host’s surviving nobles began to talk of returning to their homes. For the space of a few hours that afternoon, the army once again teetered on the brink of destruction.

  Then the news spread through the ranks: Rakh-amn-hotep still lived! The enemy’s arrow had wounded him gravely, but by luck alone the shaft had missed the major arteries. The rearguard brought him into the fortifications, where the army’s priests took him under their care.

  Then, when the Lybaran engineers had done their work, trumpets blared from atop the fortifications, and the army was assembled in ranks on the western side of the wall. Amid a fanfare of horns, a column of chariots rode through the gates and passed slowly down the length of the column. Cheers went up from the weary Lybarans as they saw their king riding in the lead chariot. Hekhmenukep’s fever had broken over the course of the afternoon, and he had ordered his Ushabti to prepare his chariot so that the men could see that he was well. He managed little more than to stay upright as he rode all the way to the front of the army, but the gesture had the desired effect. Their morale restored, the army resumed their long retreat eastwards, towards Mahrak. Behind them, the ancient fortifications built by the first king of Quatar collapsed in a rumble of grinding stone and a rising pall of chalk-white dust.

  The destruction of the gates bought the army two full days. The allied host made good use of the time, racing all night and half the next day along the broad, dusty road that ran the length of the sacred valley. They camped in the shadows of the oldest tombs in Nehekhara, where the tribes laid their chiefs to rest before the creation of the great cities. There was great power invested in the ancient tombs, and the priests of the allied armies drew on that power with a willingness they’d never demonstrated in the march to the west. They summoned desert spirits and wove cunning illusions to trap and confound their pursuers, while mounted raiders laid bloody ambushes for any enemy horsemen that pressed too closely to the retreating column.

  Two days after the battle at Quatar the sky to the west turned dark as pitch, like the heart of a raging sandstorm, and the allied army knew that Nagash and his forces had entered the Valley of Kings. Cloaked in howling blackness, the immortals and the companies of the dead pursued the allied armies without pause. As the undead horde stumbled onto the traps laid by the priests the valley shook with peals of thunder and strange, unearthly roars, and lurid flashes of lightning lit the edges of the dust clouds as the armies marched at night.

  Slowly but surely, the gap between the two armies closed. The immortals learned to defeat the priests’ illusions, and their necromantic powers allowed them to banish or destroy the spirits sent against them. They ransacked the ancient tombs to find more bodies to replenish their ranks, leaving nothing but rubble and ruin in their wake. With each passing night, they drew closer to their quarry, until the army’s rearguard was locked in constant skirmishes with Numasi scouts and light infantry.

  The terrain in the Valley of Kings was, however, favourable to defensive fighting. Clusters of stone crypts prevented massed cavalry charges and provided defensible positions for infantry and archers. There was no room to outflank the allied rearguard, and the defenders could fall back from one line of improvised fortifications to the next. The undead attackers pressed hard against the rearguard, and losses mounted, but the stubborn defenders succeeded in keeping Nagash’s troops away from the main body of the retreating host.

  Two weeks later, with roiling dust clouds looming at their backs, the vanguard of the eastern armies reached the Gates of the Dusk, and the warriors of the east fell to their knees and thanked the gods for their deliverance.

  The Gates of the Dusk were older by far than their distant cousins to the west, some scholars even claiming that the great stone obelisks marking the entrance to the valley predated the Great Migration, though none would speculate on who could have raised such towering structures, or why. The massive stone pillars, eight in all, rose more than a hundred feet above the valley floor, and were arrayed side-by-side along the ancient road that wound along the base of the valley. During Settra’s time, low walls had been built from the sides of the valley up to the base of the obelisks, but construction was halted shortly thereafter when a terrible plague swept through the work parties. The architects took this to be a sign of the gods’ displeasure, and no further attempts were made to fortify the eastern end of the valley. A sprawling village of stone and mud-brick buildings that once supported the labourers still stood a quarter of a mile to the east of the great gates. Over time, it had been taken over by the temples of Djaf and Usirian as a stopping place for pilgrims who sought to visit the tombs of their ancestors within the valley. The village bustled with activity as the armies of the east filled the narrow streets and looked for places to make camp.

  Rakh-amn-hotep had been carried into the centre of the village and placed in an abandoned manor that had once belonged to a Lybaran royal architect. He was brought aboard an improvised palanquin layered with cloaks and cushions, and his Ushabti carried him with the utmost care. Ekhreb and a squadron of horsemen kept onlookers and well-wishers at a distance as the king was brought into the manor.

  While his miraculous survival was well known among the rank and file of the army, and, indeed, served to inspire the warriors many times during the hard march down the valley, what was not commonly known was that the bronze arrowhead had lodged deep in the king’s spine. Rakh-amn-hotep could move his eyes and manage a weak grunt if asked a simple question, but that was all. For all intents and purposes he was a living man trapped in a lifeless body.

  The king’s servants made Rakh-amn-hotep as comfortable as they could in a secluded part of the house, while Ekhreb and the army’s captains gathered and began making plans to defend the Gates of the Dusk from Nagash’s horde. Rakh-amn-hotep lay in the dim light of half a dozen oil lamps and listened to the murmuring voices in the manor’s common room, while a dozen priests dressed his wound and washed his body in warm water and scented oils.

  It was almost dawn. The army was almost fully encamped at the gates, with only the last squadrons of the rearguard still arriving from the night’s skirmishes. Suddenly, the king heard a commotion in the street outside the manor, and surprised shouts at the manor door. Conversation in the common room abruptly ceased, and the priests attending the king shared worried glances as the commotion near the front of the old house increased.

  Rakh-amn-hotep’s hearing had grown as sharp as a bat’s since his injury. He could tell that the voices were moving, heading deeper into the house. After a few moments it became clear that they were, in fact, coming his way. His gaze fell upon the room’s single wooden door.

  The assembled priests climbed nervously to their feet as footfalls sounded in the corridor beyond. The door latch rattled, and Ekhreb stepped swiftly inside. The champion was still covered in white dust from the road, and there was an agitated expression on his handsome face. Ignoring the startled looks from the priests, he approached the king and bowed.

  “Nebunefer is here, with a delegation from the Hieratic Council at Mahrak,” he said gravely. “They wish to see you.”

  The two men locked eyes. It was a shameful thing for a man to be seen in such a crippled state, much less a king. Ekhreb looked willing and ready to send the delegates back to Mahrak if the king so wished.

  After a moment, Rakh-amn-hotep drew a deep breath, and let out a single grunt: Yes.

  Ekhreb bowed his head once more, and returned to the doorway.

  “The Priest King of Rasetra welcomes you,” he said into the darkness.

  The priests in the room bowed their heads and withdrew quickly to the edges of the room, and then sank to their knees as Nebunefer strode through the doorway. The aged priest had dispensed with his dust-stained robes, and wore
the golden vestments of a high priest of Ptra. Behind him came four cloaked and hooded figures, their features completely hidden in layers of gauzy cotton.

  The delegation approached the king’s side and bowed deeply. Nebunefer raised his hands.

  “The blessings of Ptra the Glorious be upon you, great one,” the priest intoned. “Your name is spoken with reverence in the temples of the great city, where it rises like pleasing music to fill the ears of the gods.” Nebunefer turned and indicated the hooded figures with a sweep of his hand. “The Hieratic Council has been informed of your heroic deeds, great king,” the priest said gravely, “and they wish to give you this gift as a token of their gratitude.”

  Nebunefer bowed once more and stepped aside. As one, the figures reached up and drew back their hoods. Several of the priests in the room gasped in surprise.

  Rakh-amn-hotep found himself staring up at four identical golden masks, each one shaped by a master craftsman to capture the essence of a goddess. They were breathtaking in their perfection, from their almond-shaped eyes to the sleek curves of their cheeks and the promise of their full lips. The hammered gold glowed under the lamplight, and in the shifting shadows it seemed as though the masks smiled lovingly down upon the king. Black shadows pooled at the base of the priestesses’ long, pale throats. Each young woman wore a necklace of black asps to guard her virtue and show her devotion to the goddess Asaph.

  The priestesses gathered around the king’s head and stretched forth pale hands decorated in sinuous henna tattoos. Rakh-amn-hotep felt their cool touch as they peeled away his bandages and brushed lightly at his face. Then they laid their hands upon his wound and in a single voice they began to chant.

  The incantation was a long and arduous one, requiring a combination of timing, finesse and power. The priestesses’ hands wove a delicate web around the king’s wound, teasing the bronze arrowhead away from Rakh-amn-hotep’s spine and knitting the flesh together in its wake. By the time they were done the oil lamps had burnt out and bright morning sunlight was slanting into the room from the corridor beyond.

  Three of the priestesses drew up their hoods and withdrew to the doorway. The fourth studied the king in silence for a moment, and then bent towards him until her perfect golden mask was scant inches from his face. The flickering tongues of asps tickled the king’s chin.

  Large, dark eyes looked into the king’s. The priestess exhaled, and Rakh-amn-hotep could somehow feel it through the mask, as though it had slipped past the goddess’ rounded lips. Her breath was warm and soft, and smelled of vanilla.

  “Rise,” the priestess whispered. “Rise, and give glory to Asaph.”

  With that, the priestess withdrew, drawing her hood up over her head and slipping silently from the room with her retinue at her back.

  Rakh-amn-hotep watched them go. He breathed deeply. A faint tremor passed through his body. His fingers twitched. Then slowly, painfully, the king pushed himself upright. He swung his legs over the edge of the palanquin and took another deep, racking breath. Then he pressed his hands to his face.

  “Glory be to Asaph,” he said in a ragged voice.

  “Glory be to Asaph,” Ekhreb echoed solemnly. Nebunefer smiled.

  “I am glad to see you well, great king. Given all you and your people have done in the long war against the Usurper, this was the least that we could do.” The Rasetran king lowered his hands and gave the priest a forbidding stare.

  “About damn time,” he growled. Nebunefer’s smile faded.

  “Excuse me?”

  “There are perhaps a thousand men between here and the Fountains of Life whose bones are bleaching in the sun because our healers could not save them,” the king said. “Where were the priestesses of Asaph then?” With a grunt, the king levered himself to his feet. “Where were the priests of Mahrak when a plague of madness was raging through Quatar? We have marched and fought and bled for your sake, Nebunefer. Nagash is nearly upon your doorstep, and it’s past time for you and your holy men to join the fight.”

  The old priest bristled at the king’s tone.

  “We have opened our coffers to you and Hekhmenukep,” he snapped. “We paid for your armies twice over!”

  “You can keep your damned gold!” Rakh-amn-hotep shot back. “We would have fought that monster even had it beggared us!” The king took a step towards the old man, his anger rising. Then he caught himself. With an effort, he took a deep breath and continued. “You marched with us, Nebunefer. You were at Quatar. You’ve seen the bodies. Tens of thousands of dead men… Even if we win, our cities may never be the same again. If the Hieratic Council had been with us in the west—”

  “It isn’t as simple as that, great one,” Nebunefer said.

  “I’ve heard the stories of the battle at Zedri,” Rakh-amn-hotep said. “I know that Nagash’s defilement of Neferem has given him the power to negate your invocations, but by the gods! The things that your priests might have done to sustain us, far from the battle line…”

  “You know far less than you imagine,” Nebunefer hissed. He started to say more, and then paused. The old priest stared hard at the holy men ringing the room. “Leave us,” he commanded.

  When the priests were gone, Nebunefer glanced warily at Ekhreb, but Rakh-amn-hotep folded his arms stubbornly, and said, “He deserves to hear this as much as I do, perhaps more so.” Nebunefer frowned, but finally he shrugged his bony shoulders.

  “Very well,” he said with a sigh. “Do you know why Neferem renders our invocations powerless?”

  The Rasetran king considered the question, and then answered, “Because she represents the covenant between the gods and men, which is why Settra coerced the Hieratic Council into allowing his marriage to the Daughter of the Sun, hundreds of years ago. He sought to bind the sacred covenant governing all of Nehekhara with his household, and to prevent the council at Mahrak from ever turning their powers against him.”

  “But,” Nebunefer said with a raised finger, “the great king didn’t fully appreciate the significance of his marriage. The Daughter of the Sun does not represent the sacred covenant, she is the covenant made flesh.”

  Rakh-amn-hotep scowled at the priest, and asked, “Why would the gods do such a thing?” Nebunefer smiled faintly.

  “As a sign of faith,” he replied. “Faith that our ancestors would honour their promise to give offerings and worship to the gods.” The king nodded thoughtfully.

  “And Nagash has claimed this covenant for his own. Gods above, he’s a usurper in more ways than one.”

  Nebunefer shook his head ruefully, and said, “For all his vaunted intelligence, Nagash doesn’t seem to fully appreciate what he’s done. If he wished, he could command the powers of the gods, in exchange for sacrifice and worship. As terrible as things have been, but for the Usurper’s arrogance it could have been far worse.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Rakh-amn-hotep growled. “Since Neferem represents the covenant, she is the conduit for the gods’ power. But such things work both ways.”

  The old priest nodded. “Our offerings do not reach the gods, nor do their gifts bless us in return,” he said. “Nagash has cut us off from our power, great one. We have not acted until now because we cannot.”

  The king’s hand strayed to his throat. “But what the priestesses just did…” he began.

  Nebunefer sighed. “A lifetime’s devotion to the gods transforms us. Our souls become charged with the power of the divine. Now, that is all we have left.” He nodded towards the door. “Those four priestesses gave up part of their souls so that you could walk again.”

  “Great gods,” Rakh-amn-hotep whispered. “How are we to stop this monster? His army will be here an hour after sunset. We must hold him at the Gates of the Dusk.”

  “We cannot hold Nagash here,” Nebunefer said. “The gates are poorly fortified, and your armies have been badly mauled already.”

  “My men don’t lack for courage,” the Rasetran king growled, “especially now that the
beast is breathing at their door.” Nebunefer chuckled.

  “After all that your warriors have done, no one will ever question their courage,” he said, “but if they remain here they will be overrun by dawn. Ask your man here if you don’t believe me.”

  The king looked to his champion. Ekhreb scowled, but nodded reluctantly.

  “He’s right, great one,” he said, “Those walls weren’t built high enough or broad enough to stop a determined army, and the men have nothing left to give. They will fight if you give the order, but they won’t last for long.”

  “What would you have us do, then?” Rakh-amn-hotep asked the priest with a sigh.

  “Withdraw,” Nebunefer replied. “Return to your cities and rebuild your armies.”

  “And what about Nagash?”

  “Nagash means to conquer Mahrak,” the old priest said. “He has dreamt of humbling us for a very long time, and now he has the chance.” He faced the king. “You are right, great one. The time has come for us to pay our tithe of blood. We will fight the Usurper at the City of Hope until you and Hekhmenukep can return and break the siege.”

  “That could take years, Nebunefer,” the king replied. “You just said yourself that the Hieratic Council is powerless.” Another faint smile crossed Nebunefer’s face.

  “I never said the word powerless, great one. We still have our Ushabti, and the city is protected by wards that even Nagash would be hard-pressed to break. Fear not. We will hold out for as long as we must.”

  Rakh-amn-hotep began to pace around the dimly lit chamber. His knees felt weak, but after he’d learned what had been done to restore his limbs, he didn’t think he’d ever sit down again.

  “What of Lahmia?” he said. “Those libertines have done nothing, even when Nagash took their royal daughter and slew her son. How long do they think they can sit by and watch Nehekhara burn?”