[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  “The picket is secure?” he asked. Ekhreb nodded.

  “The Numasi haven’t been patrolling as aggressively for the last few months. When they send out patrols at all, they rarely stray more than a few leagues from camp.” He sighed. “Hopefully that doesn’t mean that Mahrak has finally capitulated.”

  There had been no word from the City of Hope for a very long time. Small scouting patrols had managed to steal close to Mahrak over the years and bring back news of the siege, but Rakh-amn-hotep had called off the missions just before he began sending his troops northwards. He didn’t want to risk having one of his scouts taken prisoner and revealing the army’s position.

  After a moment the stout king shook his head.

  “If Mahrak had fallen, Nagash’s host would be bearing down on Lybaras right now,” he said. Secretly however, the king’s instincts told him that the city was close to collapse. That they had endured as long as they had was a grim sort of miracle. He thought of Nebunefer, and wondered if the old priest still lived.

  A stir went through the Ushabti. One of them pointed southwards, and the king peered into the gloom.

  “Here they come,” Rakh-amn-hotep said portentously.

  The plume of dust raised by the column was a faint smudge in the moonlit sky. Rakh-amn-hotep first spied a small squadron of chariots, no doubt the king’s Ushabti, and then came a single, darkly painted wagon, drawn by a team of six horses. A final company of spearmen marched doggedly across the rough terrain behind the Lybaran court wagon.

  As the king watched, a pair of Rasetran scouts broke cover from a shadowy defile further south and rode out to meet the column. There was a brief exchange, and one scout led the wagon and its bodyguards towards the ridge where Rakh-amn-hotep waited. The remaining scout wheeled his horse around and guided the spear company towards a nearby gully, where the troops could eat a decent meal and catch a few hours of sleep before the march began the next day.

  Rakh-amn-hotep gestured to his companions and began walking down the ridge towards the oncoming wagon. The Lybaran Ushabti arrived first, dismounting from their chariots and bowing their heads respectfully to the Rasetran king as he approached.

  The wagon, the last, battered remnant of Hekhmenukep’s splendid mobile court, rattled to a halt a few moments later. Slaves raced around to the back of the conveyance, pulling its wooden doors open and placing a set of steps on the ground just as the Lybaran king emerged.

  Hekhmenukep had healed well since the battle at the fountains. Deep wrinkles crowded the corners of the priest king’s eyes, and he moved with greater care than he might have done years before, but otherwise he seemed in good health. He climbed down onto solid ground and approached Rakh-amn-hotep, trailed by an earnest-looking young man in royal robes.

  “Well met, old friend,” Hekhmenukep said sombrely. He turned and gestured towards his companion. “Allow me to present my son and heir, Prince Khepra.” Khepra stepped forwards and bowed to the Rasetran king.

  “It is a great honour,” he said, his voice grave and his expression full of youthful seriousness. Rakh-amn-hotep nodded courteously to the young man.

  “In return, let me introduce my own son,” he said, indicating the slender, robed young man standing nearby. “This is Prince Shepret.”

  At the sound of his name the robed figure stepped forwards and bowed. He drew back his desert facecloth, revealing sharp, aquiline features and startling green eyes.

  “The honour is ours,” Shepret said. Though physically almost exactly the opposite of the stout, craggy-featured Rasetran king, Shepret’s steely tone and brusque manner was just like his father’s. Hekhmenukep smiled at Rakh-amn-hotep.

  “It appears we think alike, you and I,” he said.

  “Indeed,” the Rasetran king replied. “About time for the younger generation to make their mark in the world.” But Hekhmenukep could not mistake the look that went with Rakh-amn-hotep’s words.

  Both men understood that this was the last chance to save their homes. If they failed to break Nagash at Mahrak, the cities of the east were doomed. Better that their sons fight and die on the battlefield than bend their knees to the Usurper.

  “I trust you’ve taken good care of my troops these last few months,” Hekhmenukep said, changing the subject.

  The Rasetran king nodded. “All is in readiness,” he said. “Now that you’ve arrived we will march at first light tomorrow. There’s no sense waiting any more than we must and risk a chance discovery by Nagash’s scouts.”

  Hekhmenukep nodded. “And the Usurper suspects nothing?” he asked.

  “As far as we can tell, he has no idea we’re here,” Rakh-amn-hotep replied. “His attention is focused entirely on Mahrak, and his Numasi allies are doing a poor job of securing his flank. We’ll hit the Numasi encampment tomorrow like a thunderbolt, and drive through and into Nagash’s positions before they know what is happening.”

  “What of Zandri’s army?” Hekhmenukep asked. “Is there any sign of them?” Rakh-amn-hotep shook his head.

  “We assume they are further north, guarding the Usurper’s northern flank, too far away to make much difference once the attack begins. By the time they are able to join the battle the outcome will have already been decided.”

  Hekhmenukep considered the plan and nodded. Both kings knew that their forces were badly outnumbered. Surprise was essential if they were to have a hope of defeating Nagash’s horde.

  “Let us pray that we can avoid notice for just a few hours more,” he said. “The future of all Nehekhara depends upon it.”

  Thirty yards away, two men lay behind another rocky ridge line, listening intently. The voices of the two kings carried easily through the cold night air. Eventually, the party climbed aboard the Lybaran court wagon and the procession made its way up into a hidden valley, where the bulk of the allied army waited.

  The two Numasi scouts waited for more than half an hour, long after the last echoes of the wagon’s passage had faded away. Slowly and carefully, they eased from their camouflaged holes and slipped like shadows down to the base of the ridge, where their horses waited. Without a word, the two men climbed into their saddles and parted ways, racing across the desert to carry the news to their master.

  THIRTY

  The End of all Things

  Mahrak, the City of Hope, in the 63rd year of Djaf the Terrible

  (-1740 Imperial reckoning)

  The Lahmian army reached Mahrak by mid-morning of the next day, arriving with a fanfare of trumpets and the liquid flutter of hundreds of yellow silk banners. Squadrons of heavy cavalry came first, riding around the northern perimeter of the besieged city in a sinuous column of brightly coloured pennons. Silver pendants worked into the horses’ harnesses glittered icily in the bright sunlight, contrasting with the strange, coal-black scale shirts and greaves that the cavalrymen wore. Behind the heavy horsemen rode smaller squadrons of horse archers riding sleek, lean-limbed mounts. Short, powerful horse bows rested across their wooden saddles, similar to the fearsome weapons of the vanquished Bhagarites.

  Behind the horse archers, long columns of spearmen marched under various silk banners that announced the identities of their noble patrons. The footmen wore dark metal armour similar to the cavalry, and their swords and spear-tips were fashioned from the same ore.

  At first glance, the final Lahmian infantry companies appeared to be spearmen as well, except that they bore no shields and were smaller in number than the standard foot companies. Each warrior marched with a long pole held against his shoulder, but upon closer observation it became apparent that these weapons were not spears. In fact, they hardly looked like weapons at all. One-third of the object was indeed a pole of hard wood, nearly as thick as a man’s forearm and capped at the end by a bulb of dark metal. The rest of the object’s length was made of unpolished bronze and held in place with more dark metal bands. Artisans had carved the bronze to resemble the scaly hide of a fearsome lizard, and the object’s bronze tip resembled th
e leering, fanged mouth of a crocodile. The carved jaws were parted, opening to reveal dark hollows within.

  The Zandrian outriders who met the Lahmians studied the strange warriors with a mixture of curiosity and dread. It was well-known that Lahmia was a distant and exotic place, and its people traded with mysterious barbarians in the Silk Lands in the far east. What they saw only confirmed their expectations.

  The army came to a halt within only a few hundred yards of the Zandri positions and quickly began to stake out a perimeter as though preparing to make camp. Into their midst came a procession of brightly coloured wagons that no doubt contained the Lahmian king and his retainers. The newcomers appeared to take little notice of the gaunt, staring Zandrians, or the bone-covered plain stretching westwards from Mahrak’s walls and the roiling clouds of darkness hanging in the sky beyond.

  The same could not be said of the people inside the besieged city. When the first yellow banners were seen to the north, word spread like a desert storm through Mahrak’s filthy, corpse-choked streets. By the time the Lahmian army had drawn up before the Zandri encampment half a dozen tall Ushabti had climbed atop the city’s northern wall, bearing a frail, robed figure who weighed little more than a child. Slowly and carefully, they set Nebunefer onto his feet and helped him lay his wrinkled hands upon the battlements for support. Then the withdrew to a respectful distance.

  Nebunefer watched the wagons of the Lahmian king roll into view, followed by a long line of heavily laden supply wagons. The old priest’s mind was still sharp, almost preternaturally so, these days. Starvation had a tendency to focus one’s thoughts, he had come to learn, at least for a short time.

  From the evidence, it was clear that Lamashizzar had no intention of lifting the siege. For ten long years the Lahmians had watched the war against Nagash unfold, refusing to commit to one side or the other. Nebunefer believed that they were waiting to see which side gained the upper hand before committing themselves. Now, apparently, they had made their decision.

  An Ushabti approached and bowed to the priest, offering a small clay cup brimming with steaming liquid. Nebunefer took the cup in both hands, grateful for its warmth despite the bright, mid-morning sun. He took a small sip of the tea, Lahmian tea, he noted sadly, imported at great cost from the Silk Lands and purchased for the temple storehouses years before. The tea had a delicate, floral taste when combined with water from the Sundered Stone. It was all that the priesthood had left. They steeped the tiny leaves until nothing was left, and then ate those as well.

  No one knew how many of Mahrak’s citizens were left. Hundreds had died in riots as the food supplies dwindled, and many hundreds more succumbed after everyone became too weak to fight. Entire families had retreated into their homes, sending out the youngest and strongest in search of food, or when hope ran out, to loot an apothecary’s shop for a fast-acting poison. There wasn’t a single apothecary shop left intact anywhere in the city. It was only by the selfless efforts of the priests of Geheb and Asaph that a plague had not broken out years before.

  Rumours were rife of cannibalism in the poorer districts of the city, as desperate, starving families fell upon the wasted corpses piled in the streets. The Hieratic Council declared such an offence punishable by death, but little effort was made to hunt for the perpetrators. No one really wanted to know if there was any truth to the tales.

  Nebunefer sipped his tea slowly, wincing at the cramps that gripped his belly from time to time as he watched the Lahmians organising a royal procession to greet the Usurper. As he watched, his mind drifted back to the last time he’d spoken with the Rasetran king. He wondered what had become of Rakh-amn-hotep, and where he was now. Much could happen to a man in four years. Perhaps the king still intended to keep his old promise. If so, Nebunefer feared that the Rasetrans would not arrive in time.

  “I thought that I might find you here,” said a sepulchral voice close to Nebunefer’s ear.

  The old priest blinked for a few long moments, unable to puzzle out where the sound had come from. He turned his head in a daze and saw the pale, hollowed-out face of Atep-neru, the Hierophant of Djaf. The long siege had turned the priest even more cadaverous than he had been to start with, but the privations of hunger didn’t seem to plague him as much as Nebunefer or the other priests.

  “Atep-neru, it’s good to see you,” Nebunefer said. His voice was a thready whisper, despite the Lahmian tea. “It’s been some time since you left the precincts of your temple. I had begun to fear the worst.” He gestured towards the north. “You’ve come to see the arrival of the Lahmians, I expect.” The Hierophant of Djaf frowned worriedly at the old priest.

  “Nothing of the kind,” he said. “I’ve come to summon you to the Palace of the Gods. There are important decisions to be made.” Nebunefer sipped his tea and winced as another cramp seized his guts.

  “I have nothing useful to add,” he said, shaking his head wearily. “Nekh-amn-aten speaks for our temple, as always. He can decide for himself.”

  “Nekh-amn-aten is dead,” Atep-neru said flatly. “He took poison sometime during the night. By right of seniority, you are now the Hierophant of Ptra.”

  Nebunefer could not bring himself to reply at first. He looked down at the cup in his hands and waited until the terrible pain in his heart subsided.

  “I pray that Usirian will judge him kindly,” he said at last. Then the old priest took a deep breath and straightened. “What decisions must be made?” Atep-neru folded his thin arms.

  “Nekh-amn-aten insisted upon defiance against Nagash,” he said. “Now that he is gone, Khansu is advocating a rash and destructive response.”

  The old priest nodded in understanding. The Hierophant of Khsar had grown increasingly intemperate and erratic as the siege wore on.

  “What does he suggest?” he asked.

  “An attack, of course,” Atep-neru said. “With not just the Ushabti, but every person left in the city. A last gesture of defiance, while we still have the strength to fight.”

  Nebunefer shook his head, and said, “That would be no fight. Just glorified mass suicide.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Atep-neru said. “Khansu is a fool, but he’s won a number of council members over to his side. I need your support to suggest a more rational course of action.”

  “Such as?” the old priest asked.

  “Why, surrender of course,” Atep-neru replied. “Something we should have done long ago and spared our people much suffering.” The hierophant spread his hands. “Nagash must see that we are at an impasse. Every day the Usurper lingers here, he and his allies see the fortunes of their home cities dwindle. I’m certain he would be willing to negotiate an end to the siege.”

  “Assuming that were true, what of our allies? We would be betraying them.” Nebunefer replied with a sigh. Atep-neru’s frown deepened.

  “Our allies have abandoned us,” he snapped. “It’s been four years, Nebunefer. They are not coming. No one is going to save us but ourselves.”

  Nebunefer stared up at Atep-neru and saw the absolute conviction in the hierophant’s eyes. The old priest sighed, feeling more weary than he’d ever felt in his long life. He turned, looking out at the Lahmian camp once more, and shook his head sadly.

  “Go on,” Nebunefer said. “Convene the council at the Palace of the Gods. I…” He stared down at the depths of his cup. “I’ll just finish my tea.” The hierophant nodded curtly.

  “I’ll see you at the palace, then,” he said. “Don’t keep us waiting long. With Lamashizzar here, our position becomes more perilous by the moment.” Atep-neru turned on his heel and hastened towards the battlement stair.

  Nebunefer watched the hierophant go, and then turned back to the Lahmian army. He watched their silk banners ripple in the desert wind, and sipped the last of his tea. The sense of loss he felt cut clean through him, like a flashing blade in the heat of battle.

  This would be Mahrak’s last day. The city’s brave resistance was at an end, whethe
r it be thrown away in a single, doomed charge or traded like cheap cloth in the marketplace. Those were the only options that remained.

  The old priest drank the last, bitter dregs and studied the empty cup for a long moment. Then he stretched forth his hand and let it fly, casting it in a plunging arc over the city wall.

  There was, Nebunefer realised, a third option.

  * * * * *

  The Lahmians did not bother sending a messenger to the tent of the Undying King and waiting to be invited to an audience. Within an hour of their arrival a procession was organised and set off towards the centre of Nagash’s camp. They announced their coming with the blare of trumpets and the clash of cymbal and bell, filling the air with a riot of celebratory noise. The warriors of Zandri stood aside as the procession marched through their encampment, marvelling at the dark-armoured horsemen and the black lacquered palanquin, leading a procession of brightly clad retainers carrying dozens of bundles and wooden chests.

  News of the army’s arrival raced through the camp, drawing Nagash’s remaining immortals from their posts to attend upon their master. The king’s Tomb Guard, hastily mustered to full strength as the procession approached, stepped aside and allowed the pale-skinned nobles to file hurriedly into their master’s cavernous tent.

  Arkhan the Black slipped in among them and sidled towards the shadows in the far corner of the dimly lit chamber. He searched the growing crowd for any sign of Amn-nasir or the twin Kings of Numas, but Nagash’s mortal vassals were nowhere to be seen.

  The Undying King was already present, sitting upon Khemri’s throne at the far end of the chamber and attended by his blind servant Ghazid. Neferem was absent. Even her small throne had been hastily removed.

  Speculation was rampant. Arkhan listened to the sibilant whispers of his fellow immortals. Many reasoned that Lamashizzar had reached his majority and come to swear his allegiance to Nagash. Others speculated that the young king would challenge their master for the return of Neferem. Still others believed that Lamashizzar hoped to intercede on behalf of the priests of Mahrak. Arkhan folded his arms and settled down to watch the audience unfold.