[Nagash 03] - Nagash Immortal

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

Jabari set the cup aside and plucked a wooden figure from the tray at his side. “There’s a thundering of hooves off to your left!” the tutor declared. “Bronze glints in the noonday sun! There are shouts and confused cries from the ruins!” The Rasetran leaned across the wide sand table and placed the elegantly carved figure of a mounted horseman on Alcadizzar’s flank—behind the ruins of the caravan post.

  The prince’s eyes widened. “Where in the name of all the gods did they come from?”

  Jabari shrugged his wide shoulders in feigned bewilderment, but his deep-set eyes glinted with mischief. In his prime, he had been Rasetra’s Master of Horse, and had ridden in more than a dozen campaigns against the city’s foes. He pointed a scarred finger at the ragged, knife-like cleft carved through the sand off to the left of the ruins. “Given the shouts of surprise coming from the ruins, I’d hazard a guess that they came galloping out of that wadi.”

  “What? No, that’s not possible!” Alcadizzar sputtered. “Look—the far end of the wadi’s in full view of my archers! We’d have seen them coming!”

  Jabari nodded sagely. “So it would seem, so it would seem,” he replied agreeably. “Of course, there could also be a narrow branch connecting it to that larger wadi further north,” he pointed out, indicating a much wider cleft that curved behind the dunes further north. “No way to tell from here, of course. Perhaps if your scouts had explored the area more thoroughly the day before you might have learned for certain.”

  Alcadizzar sighed. “Very well,” he grumbled. “How many?”

  Jabari smiled and picked up the cup again. The dice rattled. “Thousands, your aides say. Many thousands!”

  The prince’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Jabari always portrayed his aides as credulous nitwits. It hardly seemed realistic. He studied the sand table for a moment. The carved mahogany figure representing him and his retinue was positioned on a low dune just behind the oasis, dangerously close to the swift-moving enemy horsemen. “All right. How many can I see?”

  Jabari shook the dice cup. “You can’t tell. Too much dust.”

  Of course, Alcadizzar thought sourly. He studied the battlefield a moment longer, then nodded. “Shift the reserve company to the left, double-quick, and order them to attack the enemy horsemen.”

  “Very well—”

  “And I send two runners instead of one, to make certain that the order gets through,” Alcadizzar interjected. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  Jabari’s smile widened. “I hear and obey, great one,” he replied. The tutor rattled the dice in the cup a few more times, considered the results, and then began shifting the positions of the troops on the table.

  The prince reached for the goblet of watered wine resting on the edge of the table and sipped thoughtfully, his gaze wandering to the tall windows that lined the western wall of the chamber. There were few clouds in the sky, despite the summer season; the late afternoon sun outlined the dark hills beyond Lahmia’s walls and sent shafts of mellow, golden light through the tall windowpanes. A good day to be riding, he thought wistfully, watching a caravan heading out through the city’s western gate. The traders were leaving very late in the day; possibly there had been delays loading their goods, or perhaps they’d encountered difficulties obtaining the proper permits from the city magistrates. As it was, they would be lucky to make it up the winding hill roads and onto the edge of the Golden Plain by nightfall. From there, it would be a week to cross the plain—providing they had no trouble from the bandit gangs that roamed the area—and then on to Lybaras, or Rasetra, or even farther west, past forlorn Mahrak and through the Valley of Kings to the great cities of the west. They could even be heading for Khemri, he realised, and felt a sharp pang of envy.

  Some day, Alcadizzar told himself. Some day he would be ready. But when?

  All roads in Nehekhara led to Lahmia, the opulent City of the Dawn. The wealth of the great city and the wise leadership of its rulers had led the Nehekharans out of the dark age wrought by Nagash the Usurper; indeed, the bloodline of its ruling dynasty was worshipped as the last vestige of divinity in a land that had been rendered bereft of its gods.

  Lahmia’s power and influence was so preeminent that it had become custom for the ruling families of the other great cities to send their young heirs to be educated at the City of the Dawn. They were borne to the great city, amid much pomp and ceremony, as soon as they were old enough to travel—all except for Alcadizzar, that was. His mother Hathor, Queen of Rasetra, had journeyed to Lahmia while he was still in the womb; her pregnancy had been fraught with trouble and the royal midwives were doubtful that she would deliver her child. Desperate, the queen turned to the only source of aid left to her, the Temple of Blood. There, she held a vigil in the presence of the goddess, praying for the prince’s life.

  Before the dawn—or so the story went—the high priestess of the temple came to Hathor, saying that her pleas had been answered. The goddess had spoken, and her child would survive. Every week afterwards, she was brought to the temple, where she was given an elixir to drink that had been blessed by the goddess herself. Two months later, almost to the very hour that the high priestess first spoke to her, Hathor gave birth to Alcadizzar. The queen had remained with him at the temple for a full year afterwards; then she placed him in the care of the Lahmian royal household and returned to Rasetra. Alcadizzar had never met his father, King Aten-heru, nor did he have any memories of his mother, who died in childbirth two years after returning home.

  The insistent rattling of dice disturbed the prince’s reverie. Alcadizzar turned back to the table and frowned. Jabari smiled, shaking the cup. “What are your orders, great one?” he asked.

  On the battlefield, Alcadizzar’s reserve company had obeyed its orders with surprising speed, altering their formation to the left and charging over the open space behind the oasis to make contact with the oncoming enemy horsemen. Now both units were locked in melee. The spearmen had suffered the worst of it so far, having borne the brunt of the cavalry’s charge, but now the horsemen’s momentum was exhausted. Given time, the infantry would gain the upper hand.

  Unfortunately, time was not a luxury that Alcadizzar’s fictional army possessed. As the cavalry attack began, the rest of the enemy force renewed its attacks all along the length of the battle-line. The skirmishers had rallied and once more charged the caravan post, locking his archers in brutal hand-to-hand combat. In the centre, the enemy spear companies were driving forwards, despite terrible casualties, and his fourth company had broken at last. The survivors were retreating into the oasis and the triumphant enemy company was swinging to the right, preparing to attack his third company in the flank.

  The prince took in the situation at a glance. His army was balanced on a knife edge. If he didn’t shore up the centre, he was finished. “Order the chariots off the hill,” he said to Jabari. “Have them screen their movements behind the oasis, then swing around and charge the enemy spear company on our flank. I also send one of my senior nobles to rally the broken spear company and hold them in reserve inside the oasis.”

  Jabari nodded sagely and rattled his dice. He peered into the cup. “There is a problem,” he replied.

  Alcadizzar gritted his teeth. There were always problems. “What now?”

  Jabari pointed to his reserve company. “The commander of the unit has been killed, as well as his champion. The company is wavering.”

  The prince leaned against the edge of the table, looming over the two innocuous-looking wooden figures. If the reserve company broke, the cavalry would be free to charge his chariots, preventing them from saving his centre. He had to either rally the reserve company somehow, or stop the horsemen. Preferably both. Unfortunately, he didn’t have anyone left to commit to the fight.

  Alcadizzar paused. That wasn’t entirely true. He reached over the map and picked up a small, unassuming piece of wood carved in the shape of a sphinx, its fearsome head crowned with a king’s headdress.

  “I an
d my retinue will attack the enemy horsemen in the flank,” the prince said. He repositioned the sphinx next to his embattled reserve unit.

  Jabari rubbed his weathered chin. “Risky,” he said. “Very risky. You could get a sword in your guts. And there’s no one giving orders to the rest of the army while you’re off playing soldier.”

  “The rest of the army’s committed.” He shrugged. “Time for me to do my part.”

  The old Master of Horse shook his head. “A fine thing to say when you’re talking about pieces of wood,” he grumbled, but for a moment there was a glint of admiration in Jabari’s eye. “Very well, great one. On your head be it.”

  The dice rattled. Alcadizzar’s tutor contemplated the results, like a long-lost oracle. First he moved the prince’s chariots off the hill and placed them against the rear ranks of the flanking enemy spear company. Then he bent over the map and plucked Alcadizzar’s archers from the caravan post.

  “The enemy’s skirmishers have taken the caravan post,” he told the prince. “There’s no way to tell how many of them are left, because none of yours lived to tell the tale.” Before Alcadizzar could protest, Jabari turned his attention to the chariots. “Your charioteers have taken the enemy spear company by surprise; their initial charge has wrought terrible carnage on their rear ranks. So far, however, the enemy continues to hold their ground.”

  Then the old tutor turned to the battle against the enemy horsemen. “Your charge here likewise surprised the enemy,” he said. “You and your bodyguard have penetrated the formation, but your foes are putting up a stiff fight. You are swiftly surrounded.”

  Alcadizzar’s eyes narrowed on Jabari. “What about the spearmen?”

  Jabari nodded. “Your appearance has rallied them. They are pushing back hard against the enemy horsemen. Will you withdraw at this point?”

  The prince frowned. “Of course not!”

  Jabari shrugged. He raised the cup. Dice rattled. He thought for a moment, then sighed.

  “Most of your bodyguards have fallen, struck down by enemy swords and axes,” he said. “You’ve been wounded, but remain in the saddle. Your spearmen are fighting to reach you, but they seem a long way off.”

  “What about the chariots?”

  “You have no idea,” the instructor said. “They’re the least of your worries right now.”

  “But—surely I can see them?” Alcadizzar stammered.

  “All you can see right now is dust and rearing horses,” Jabari said. “Men are screaming. Blows are hammering at your shield and sword. It’s all you can do to stay in the saddle.”

  “My bodyguards—”

  “They’re gone,” Jabari said. “All of them.”

  Before Alcadizzar could reply, Jabari rattled the dice again. “There is a terrible blow to your side. You tumble from the saddle. Hooves churn the ground all around you, missing you by inches.”

  Alcadizzar’s eyes went wide. “Wait. That’s not what I—”

  “Men loom over you, shouting and swearing from their saddles. One of them raises his sword. And then…”

  The prince’s heart sank.

  “There is a mighty shout from your right. Your spearmen hurl themselves at the enemy, frantic to save you from their clutches. The enemy horsemen are stunned by the ferocity of the attack and as dozens are killed, their courage breaks. They break off, fleeing back in the direction of the wadi.”

  Jabari bent over the map, shifting the figure of the enemy cavalry back towards the winding gully. Alcadizzar’s mouth was dry. Belatedly, he remembered the goblet of wine in his hand and took a quick drink.

  The old cavalryman continued to work. “Your men find you a horse that belonged to one of your bodyguards and put you on it.” Jabari turned his attention to the centre. “When your messengers are able to reach you again, you learn that your chariots have broken the enemy spear company.” He picked up the unit’s wooden figure and placed it at the foot of a dune well behind the rest of the enemy army. “Your chariots are now poised to strike the next enemy company in the flank.”

  The prince felt a flush of triumph. “Give the order to charge!” he said. “Meanwhile, I will lead the reserve company back to the oasis and attempt to rally the broken spear company there as well.”

  At that point, the battle had turned. Alcadizzar could see that his troops were stronger and had momentum on their side. The chariots drove off a second enemy company before having to withdraw themselves, but by that point he had rallied the survivors of the fourth spear company and sent both them and the reserve spear company back into the fray. Their arrival tipped the balance, forcing the rest of the enemy army to withdraw. Jabari, ever stubborn, fought a bitter rearguard action against Alcadizzar’s warriors. The sun had nearly set by the time the old tutor declared that the battle was finally over.

  “A narrow victory,” Jabari declared, surveying the battlefield afterwards. “You were very lucky. Do you know what you did wrong?”

  “I didn’t scout that damned wadi before the battle,” the prince said ruefully.

  Jabari nodded. “That’s right. You should have never left those horsemen to get behind you like that. Always know the site of battle better than your enemy.”

  Alcadizzar watched Jabari gather up the wooden figures from the table and set them on a shelf along the wall at the far side of the room. “Was it a mistake to charge the enemy horsemen?” he asked.

  The old tutor paused. “What do you think?”

  “It seemed like the best chance of winning the battle.”

  “You could have been killed.”

  The young prince shrugged. “Isn’t it a king’s duty to protect his people to the death?”

  To Alcadizzar’s surprise, Jabari threw back his head and laughed. “Most kings prefer it the other way round.”

  “Well, I’m not afraid to die,” Alcadizzar said haughtily.

  “That’s because right now you’ve got nothing to lose,” Jabari said. “Wait until you have a wife and a family. Wait until you have real people depending on you, not blocks of wood.”

  Alcadizzar folded his arms stubbornly, stung by the dismissive tone in Jabari’s voice. “It wouldn’t make a difference. When I rule Khemri, I’ll defend the city with my life.”

  “Then no doubt history will remember you as a great king,” Jabari replied. “But your reign will be a short one, I fear.” He bowed to the prince. “Congratulations on another victory, Alcadizzar. By tomorrow, I expect you to be ready to continue your pursuit of the retreating army… and take steps to deal with the peasant revolt that has broken out in your capital.”

  Alcadizzar returned the bow, permitting himself a fleeting smile at Jabari’s rare praise. “Thank you, Jabari. I—” Suddenly the prince stood bolt upright, his brows knitting together in a frown. “Peasant revolt? What peasant revolt?” He glanced about, searching for Jabari, but the old cavalry master had already slipped silently from the room.

  With a sigh, Alcadizzar set his empty wine cup on the edge of the table. “It never ends,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Never.”

  “All things end, master,” said a quiet voice from behind Alcadizzar. “Or so the priests say.”

  The prince turned at the sound of the voice. A gaunt, shaven-headed man stood just to the right of the doorway at the eastern end of the room, head bowed and hands clasped at his waist. His skin was a peculiar shade of pale mahogany, with the shadowy lines of old tattoos twining sinuously along his throat and the sides of his skull.

  “Ubaid,” Alcadizzar said, addressing the man. “Forgive me. I didn’t realise you were there.”

  “I didn’t wish to disturb your study,” Ubaid answered. He was a man of subdued manner and indeterminate age, who had been the prince’s personal servant since he was a babe. In all that time, Alcadizzar had never known him to smile, or frown, or sneer; his expression was leaden, his movements slow and hesitant. Ubaid had the aura of a man burdened by the weight of the world. If the man had a family—or a lif
e at all beyond the palace walls—he had never spoken of it to Alcadizzar.

  “You fought well,” the servant observed. “Are you not pleased with your victory?”

  Alcadizzar ran a fingertip along the metal rim of the cup, his handsome face pensive. “Every victory just leads to another set of problems,” he grumbled. “I fail to see the point anymore.”

  “The point is to learn,” Ubaid answered patiently. “You are privileged to have the very best tutors in the land, master. Their wisdom is worth its weight in gold.”

  “Really? It doesn’t feel like wisdom anymore, Ubaid. More like mockery.” Alcadizzar glowered at the miniature battlefield. “Jabari never lets up. None of them do. What am I doing wrong?”

  “Wrong?” For the first time in Alcadizzar’s memory, Ubaid sounded faintly shocked. “How can you say such a thing, master? The blood of the divine runs through your veins. You are stronger, swifter and sharper of mind than any of your peers, and you well know it.”

  “Then why am I still here?” Alcadizzar rounded on Ubaid, his dark eyes flashing. “I’m thirty years old! None of the other heirs remained past their eighteenth birthday. If I’m so much better than everyone else, why do I remain behind?”

  Ubaid sighed. “Is it not obvious? Because you are meant for greater things, Alcadizzar. You alone will one day rise to the throne of Khemri, greatest of the cities of the west. For all the work your father has done to resettle and rebuild Khemri, it will fall to you to restore it to its former glory.” The servant slowly straightened, folding his thin arms across his chest. “The great queen has her eye upon you, master. She… expects great things of you.”

  Alcadizzar had a hard time believing that the stiff, somnolent Queen of Lahmia paid him any mind at all. For the most part, the royal heirs lived in their own world, separate from the affairs of the court, attended by a select cadre of servants and tutors. In all his years at the palace, he’d been in her presence only a handful of times and she had scarcely spoken to him at all.

  “I know very well what’s expected of me,” the prince answered. “Believe me, I do. It’s all I’ve ever known.” He swept his hand over the mock battlefield. “Tactics. Strategy. Statesmanship. History, law and commerce. Philosophy, theology and alchemy. Within these walls I’ve fought campaigns, forged alliances, crafted trade agreements and designed great buildings. I’ve learned to fight with sword and spear, learned how to ride, how to speak and sing and a hundred other things I can’t ever imagine having a use for.” He leaned against the table and sighed. “I’m ready, Ubaid. I know I am. Khemri is waiting for me. When will the queen let me go?”