[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  The blaring horns and ringing cymbals drew near. A hush fell over Nagash’s court. At a quiet order from the Undying King, Ghazid limped down the aisle between the waiting immortals and made his way outside the tent.

  The music outside stopped. Then, after a few moments, it began again, softer and more melodious. The tent flaps were drawn aside, and a score of colourful musicians entered, filling the dark chamber with the crystal notes of silver flutes, cymbals and bells. The Lahmians took no notice of the ghastly assemblage filling the shadowy expanse of the chamber. They spread quickly to either side of the opening and continued to play as the first courtiers began the long procession towards Nagash’s throne.

  Each silk-clad noble approached the Undying King with a handsome gift: bolts of the finest silk, chests of delicate jade or gilt necklaces decorated with gleaming gems. The courtiers bowed before the throne and stepped alternately left or right, forming ranks that ran the length of the aisle all the way back to the tent’s entrance.

  After several long minutes, when the last courtier had bowed and strode smoothly to his appointed place, there was another bright flare of trumpets and a rising crescendo from the musicians at the entrance. Then, in the silence that followed, Lamashizzar, the young Priest King of Lahmia, entered the crowded tent.

  Word had reached the besieging army just last year that Lamasheptra, former King of the City of the Dawn, had finally succumbed to the strain of a long life of indolence and excess. Very late in life he had sired a son and daughter by one of his wives, and his heir, Lamashizzar, had only just reached adulthood. The young king walked straight-backed and proud towards Nagash’s throne, clad in an ornate version of the dark scales worn by the rest of his army. The Lahmian king wore no helm, allowing his long, curly black hair to spill across his squared shoulders and frame his lean, handsome face. His large, brown eyes were sharp and bright, like a hawk’s, and the young king favoured Nagash’s court with a warm, dazzling smile. A curious wood and metal club was cradled in his left arm, like a sceptre. Like the objects carried by his men, the king’s club was worked in the shape of a grinning crocodile with a gaping, polished maw.

  The Lahmian king approached Nagash without the slightest sign of fear, and bowed respectfully at the foot of the throne. The Undying King regarded Lamashizzar with a cold, baleful stare.

  Nagash’s lip curled into a sneer. His ghostly retinue keened fearfully.

  “You forget your place, boy,” Nagash said. “Kneel in the presence of your betters.”

  The hateful tone of the necromancer’s voice cut through the air like a knife. Then a stir went through the immortals as the Lahmian king threw back his head and laughed.

  “The years have treated you unkindly, cousin,” Lamashizzar said. “Do your eyes fail you after so many centuries? I am no boy, but the king of a great city, the same as you, and so I greet you warmly, and offer these gifts to show you my esteem.”

  Shocked hisses rose from the court. Many looked at Lamashizzar with frank astonishment, thinking the young man deranged. Arkhan sidled closer, now even more interested in the exchange. Nagash straightened. His hands closed on the arms of his throne.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he asked coldly.

  Lamashizzar looked surprised, and said, “Meaning? Why, merely to reaffirm the close ties between our two cities. I have watched your campaigns with great interest, cousin. It shamed me to see you stymied so long here at Mahrak, so my first act as Lahmia’s king was to raise an army and march to your aid.”

  Arkhan saw Nagash’s face drain of colour. The necromancer leaned forwards slightly. “You are here to aid me?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Lamashizzar said. As he spoke, his demeanour changed slightly. The mirth drained from his features, and his voice took on a hard edge. “For the love we have for Khemri, and for my aunt, your queen, the warriors of Lahmia are prepared to deliver Mahrak into your hands. What the gods have denied you for four long years we will give you in the space of an afternoon.”

  A shocked silence fell upon the court. Arkhan watched Nagash intently, expecting violence. Instead, the ghost of a smile touched the necromancer’s lips.

  “What is your price?” the Undying King asked.

  Lamashizzar bowed once more.

  “I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of you in such a dire circumstance,” the young king said. “I merely want Khemri and Lahmia to enjoy the close relationship our cities have had since the time of mighty Settra.”

  Nagash’s expression hardened once more. “Enough dissembling,” he growled. “What is it you want?”

  The young king spread his hands.

  “What else is there worth sharing?” he asked, turning to survey the gathered immortals with a smile, but Arkhan saw the cold, calculating gleam in Lamashizzar’s eye.

  “We want power,” the Lahmian said, turning back to Nagash. “Share with us the secret of eternal life, and Mahrak is yours.” The baldness of the demand shocked even Nagash.

  “You forget yourself,” declared the Undying King.

  Lamashizzar slowly shook his head.

  “Oh, no,” he countered. “I assure you, cousin. I have forgotten nothing. It is you who have lost your way and brought your kingdom to the brink of destruction.”

  The young king pointed eastwards, towards Mahrak, before continuing, “You have defeated one army after another, but this city of priests continues to defy you,” he said. “The plain of bones outside testifies to their power. Eventually they will all starve, perhaps in another six months, perhaps in another two years, but even then the city will not fall. You won’t be able to cast down its gates and loot its great temples, and your enemies will take heart from this and continue to resist you while your own cities fall to dust.”

  “And you imagine that you can triumph where I cannot? You are a fool!” Nagash spat.

  Lamashizzar smiled once more, but his eyes were intent.

  “Then our bones will litter the field outside Mahrak, and you will have lost nothing,” he said.

  The assembled immortals watched, rapt, as the two kings vied with one another. The Undying King was furious, but Lamashizzar was undaunted. The young king had considered his position carefully, and was confident he held the upper hand. Arkhan studied Nagash’s expression closely, and was surprised to find a hint of tension that he’d never seen before. It was possible that Lamashizzar was right.

  As Nagash considered the young king’s offer, the tent flap was pulled aside and an immortal rushed into the chamber. Heedless of the tension in the room, the captain bowed to the king and said loudly, “The Hieratic Council has sent a representative to treat with you under a flag of truce!”

  Lamashizzar listened to the news and his eyes widened with surprise. His triumphant smile faltered. Behind him, Nagash’s grip on the throne relaxed. His eyes glittered like a viper’s.

  “Your offer of assistance is noted,” the Undying King said to Lamashizzar, “but will not be required.”

  The Lahmian king turned back to Nagash and bowed.

  “Then I shall take my leave of you,” Lamashizzar answered smoothly. “Perhaps later we may speak again.”

  Nagash smiled. The spirits surrounding him whirled about in fear.

  “Oh, most assuredly,” he said. “We shall speak again very soon.”

  Lamashizzar spun on his heel and beat a dignified retreat with his retainers close behind him. Their rich gifts lay where they left them, forming crooked lines all the way back to the tent’s entrance. Nagash watched the Lahmians go, savouring their dismay.

  When the last courtier had fled, the necromancer beckoned with a clawed hand.

  “Bring me this emissary,” he commanded.

  Minutes later, the tent flap swept aside again, and a pair of immortals escorted a wrinkled old man into the chamber. They held the emissary by his arms as they led him down the aisle towards the throne so that his sandalled feet scarcely touched the ground. To Arkhan, the frail, withered mortal looke
d like nothing more than a dust-covered beggar, but Nagash took one look at the emissary and rose swiftly to his feet.

  The immortals reached the throne and forced the emissary to his knees before the Undying King. Nagash looked down on the old man, his face lit with triumph.

  “This is an unexpected gift,” he said. “I thought to find you cowering in some temple deep within the city, or hiding behind those fools who make up your so-called council. Did they send you to me as some kind of peace offering, Nebunefer? A gift to persuade me to stay my wrath?”

  Nebunefer put a hand on his bent knee and slowly, painfully, levered himself to his feet. Once more, the immortals reached for him, but this time the old priest met them with a stern glare. Waves of heat radiated from his skin, which glowed like metal drawn from the forge. The two undead champions recoiled, hissing warily.

  The old priest turned his attention back to Nagash.

  “I have come to negotiate on behalf of the people of Mahrak,” he said in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

  Nagash’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “The citizens have defied the council and wish to surrender?” he asked. Nebunefer sneered at the Undying King.

  “You pompous ass,” he rasped. “I’m here to negotiate the terms of your surrender.”

  Heads turned. The immortals gaped at the old priest’s bravado. Then, one by one, they began to laugh, until the darkened chamber shook with the racket. Nagash silenced them with an unspoken command.

  “Your precious city teeters on the brink of destruction, and you come here to mock me?” the necromancer hissed.

  “You think this is a jest?” the old priest snapped. “Think again. Your siege has been an utter failure. In four years you haven’t got within ten yards of the city walls. There are hundreds of thousands of bones strewn between here and Mahrak’s gates. Truth be told, we’ve lost count of the number of assaults we’ve defeated.” Nebunefer folded his arms. “The city will not fall to the likes of you, Nagash. The gods will not allow it.”

  “The gods,” Nagash sneered. “Those disembodied charlatans. Their time is done. The empire to come, my empire, will be eternal.”

  Nebunefer let out a wheezing laugh, and said, “Settra thought the same thing, and now the beetles are burrowing into his guts. You won’t be any different, Nagash. You’re just another petty tyrant who will rise and fall like all the rest, and when you die the gods will await you in the place of judgement. No doubt they’re looking forward to seeing you.”

  “No god may stand in judgement over me!” Nagash roared. “I have burned their temples and slain their priests! Soon their precious city will be mine, and then their names will be forgotten for all time!”

  Nebunefer shook his head.

  “You are a fool,” he said, “an arrogant, deluded fool who thinks himself the equal of the gods. Yet you aren’t clever enough to understand one simple fact: so long as the covenant exists, the gods cannot be overthrown. They are bound to us, just as we are bound to them, and nothing you can do will ever change that. Can’t you see? Your pathetic crusade against the gods was doomed from the beginning!”

  The old priest was goading the necromancer. Arkhan saw that at once, but could not understand the point to it. Nagash, however, was blind to this. How often had he dreamt of getting his hands on Nebunefer after the treachery that night in the royal palace? Now he had the old priest in his clutches, and Nebunefer had stoked the king’s hatred to the boiling point.

  Nagash’s hands clenched. He took a step towards the priest, and then froze. His eyes widened, and his expression turned to one of dawning triumph.

  “Of course,” he whispered. “The answer was right in front of me all along.”

  The Undying King let out a savage cry of joy and lunged forwards, seizing the old priest by the throat.

  Nebunefer’s eyes widened. He grabbed Nagash’s wrists, trying to pry himself from the necromancer’s grip, but he was no match for the king’s unnatural strength. Nagash lifted the priest off the ground and shook him like a rag doll.

  “I could not see it!” Nagash said, laughing like a devil. “I had the power of the gods in my clutches and never realised it! Mahrak is doomed, Nebunefer, and you will die knowing that you made its destruction possible!”

  Nebunefer continued to struggle, tearing at Nagash’s wrists with his failing strength. Pure hatred glittered in the old priest’s eyes. Then, there was a brittle crack, like the snapping of a rotted branch, and Nebunefer’s head rolled back at an unnatural angle.

  Nagash tossed the dead priest’s body aside.

  “Bring me the queen!” he roared. “The fall of the old gods is at hand!”

  At that moment the tent flap was pulled aside once again. A messenger staggered inside, stained with dust and half-dead with fatigue.

  “The armies of Rasetra and Lybaras are coming!” he gasped. “They will be here within the hour!”

  Surprised hisses rose from the immortals. Nagash, the Undying King, merely smiled. “They will be too late,” he said.

  Little more than a league to the south-east, the allied armies swept across the rolling plains like a storm wind, bearing down on the Numasi encampment. Eight thousand cavalrymen made up the host’s vanguard, led by Ekhreb, with the rest of the army advancing close behind. Huge plumes of dust were kicked skywards by their advance, but stealth had been cast aside in favour of pure speed. If the gods were with them, the Numasi would not have time to form a proper defence.

  Ekhreb felt the wind upon his face as the horses raced across the plain, and felt a surge of savage joy. The weight of all the bitter defeats seemed to fall from his shoulders at long last as they closed for one final battle with the enemy. Here, at last, the advantage was theirs. The battle would belong to them.

  Riding in the midst of the allied horsemen, Ekhreb guided his powerful horse up a high, sandy dune and plunged down the other side. Beyond sat another broad plain, perhaps half a mile across, ending in another tall set of dunes. Dark clouds swirled past the distant slopes, and the tops of Mahrak’s temples dotted the northern horizon.

  In between, arrayed across the plain, were squadrons of Numasi horsemen: twelve thousand cavalry, drawn up and arrayed for battle around the standards of their twin kings.

  At the sight of the allied vanguard the Numasi drew their swords. Sunlight glinted on a thicket of polished bronze. In an instant, Ekhreb’s joy turned to ash. Somehow they had been discovered. Rakh-amn-hotep’s gamble had failed.

  In the centre of the enemy battleline, the twin kings raised their hands. War-horns bellowed out a single note, and the Numasi began their advance.

  * * * * *

  Horns wailed across the vast camp of the besiegers, calling the undead host to war. Immortals scattered from the tent of the Undying King, almost too fast for the eye to follow. They leapt onto their skeletal horses and sped off in a dozen directions, already composing the intricate series of orders that would reposition tens of thousands of troops to deal with the sudden arrival of the enemy.

  There had been no word from the Numasi kings to the south, but fragmentary reports indicated that the cavalry had already assembled and advanced to meet the foe. Nagash’s captains chose a line of low ridges a few hundred yards behind the Numasi encampment to place their initial battleline; companies of spearmen were hastily shifted south-east and formed up along the forward slope of the ridge line, while messengers were sent racing northwards to summon Zandri’s archers for immediate action. Within minutes, the bulk of Nagash’s army, fully a hundred thousand undead infantry and horsemen, was on the move, angling south-east to present a wall of bone and metal before the advancing eastern forces. Farther behind the battleline, siege engineers plied the lash against the backs of their slaves as they struggled to orient their massive catapults towards the attacking enemy.

  Amid the chaos, eight huge companies of skeletal warriors, the army’s entire reserve force of forty thousand troops, stirred beneath Nagash’s furious will and
began to march towards the shadow line. The Undying King stalked behind them, surrounded by his Tomb Guard and a large retinue of slaves. A score of the terrified servants carried the stone sarcophagus of Nagash’s queen upon their bare shoulders.

  Arkhan the Black trailed behind the grim procession, fiercely wishing for his armour and sword. He was tempted to race back to his threadbare tent and garb himself for battle despite Nagash’s spiteful orders; better to be tortured again than to have his head cut off by a chance encounter with an enemy horseman.

  Not that he had any idea what he might do if he were armed and armoured. Who would he fight? Part of him entertained the thought that he could still win back the Undying King’s favour if he acquitted himself well in battle, but to what end? A return to slavery, begging at his master’s hem for droplets of his terrible elixir?

  Power crackled invisibly through the air. Horns wailed, and the earth shook beneath the tread of tens of thousands of marching feet. To Arkhan, it felt as though the world’s foundations were shifting beneath him. Moving as though in a dream, the vizier was pulled along in his master’s wake.

  The army’s reserve companies clattered to a halt mere inches from the shadow line, the warriors’ rotting faces lit in shifting tides of light and darkness wrought by the warring sorceries. To the west, distant but growing ever nearer, came the heavy tread of giants.

  Nagash appeared in the midst of the skeletal companies, his robes flapping in the charnel wind rising behind the undead army. In his left hand he held the mighty Staff of the Ages, wreathed with the tormented spirits of the king’s ghostly retinue.

  The necromancer stepped to the edge of the shadow line and felt the power of the city’s wards seething across his skin. As the queen’s sarcophagus was set upon the ground behind him, he turned and stretched forth his right hand. The spirits surrounding the staff flowed across the stone coffin and pulled aside the lid, and then drew out Neferem’s withered body. She hung in their grasp like a broken doll, trailing scraps of filthy linen and tattered skin. Ghazid, standing close by the coffin, turned his blind face to the queen’s drifting form and wailed in misery.