[Nagash 03] - Nagash Immortal

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  Faster than thought, the curtain of lightning raced across the open ground, its arcs of fire carving channels in the bare rock—and then Nagash felt the power atop the dais flare into life. Invisible energies attacked his spell, unravelling its weave with a deftness that the necromancer never thought possible. The arcs of lightning paled, diminishing swiftly from one moment to the next, until finally fading from existence just a few feet from their intended target.

  Incredulous, Nagash roared a second incantation. Arcs of sorcerous power burst from his extended hand and sped at the dais, but the bolts detonated harmlessly against a second, smaller ward that surrounded part of the platform.

  Reflexively, the necromancer summoned up a portion of his power to guard himself from a counter-blow from the dais. When no such attack came, he hurled another volley of bolts, this time aimed at the enemy warlord. Once again, the wizard atop the dais deflected the attack. Whoever the ratman was, his mastery of the burning stone’s power was impressive; not as great as Nagash’s own, to be sure, but countering a spell required far less power and control than it did to cast one.

  The ratmen had once again surprised him. Here was a skilfully prepared defence that would cost him dearly to overcome, and he was left with no other choice but to assault it. The leaders of the enemy army were finally within his grasp. Here was the victory he’d sought for nearly a hundred years.

  Nagash gathered his wights to him and then turned his attention to the dust storm raging about the square. He dispelled the magic holding the burning cloud together and scattered it with a wave of his hand. The veil parted, revealing Akatha and the thousand northmen who had been following along behind him. They were less than twenty yards away, and when they saw the waiting ratmen they charged forwards, filling the air with their war cries.

  The necromancer turned his gaze back to the enemy warlord. He let the power of the burning stone flow along his limbs and levelled his sword in challenge at the distant figure.

  Attack!

  “Here they come!” Velsquee snarled. “Get back in line, damn you! Stand fast!”

  Pack leaders repeated the Grey Lord’s orders along the length of the formation, shoving and cursing recalcitrant warriors back into their proper place. Discipline reasserted itself swiftly: backs straightened, tails uncurled and ears unfolded as the northmen came charging across the killing ground. The sight of the kreekar-gan and his champions had been bad enough, but the sorcerous duel that had raged over the storm-walkers’ heads had left them badly shaken. The sight of a flesh-and-blood enemy did much to restore the veteran warriors’ resolve.

  Velsquee took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart. The thunderous magical barrage had shaken him as well, even though he’d known that Qweeqwol was ready to counter whatever the burning man threw at them. He’d heard all the stories about the ferocity of the kreekar-gan’s magic, but actually experiencing it was something else entirely. The grey seer had assured Velsquee that he was up to the task of countering the burning man’s sorcery. At the time, the Grey Lord had no reason to doubt the master wizard. Now, however, he wasn’t so sure. He suspected it would come down to whoever ran out of power first. In that, at least, he was certain that they held the upper hand.

  The humans were a mere thirty paces away now. The air shook with their howling battle cries. Nagash’s terrifying lieutenants led them; green fire blazed malevolently from their eye sockets and leaked from rents in their ancient, tattered armour. Their bony jaws gaped in a macabre echo of the howling northmen that flanked them.

  He couldn’t see the burning man any longer, but a rattle of detonations over the heads of the heechigar told Velsquee that he was still close by. Qweeqwol was going to have his paws full holding the kreekar-gan at bay, but that would be enough. In a battle of flesh and blood, sword and polearm, the skaven were certain to win, because he had an advantage that the burning man didn’t.

  The northmen were nearly upon them. The rock floor trembled beneath their tread, and the air shook with their savage cries. Velsquee planted his heels and brought up his enchanted blade. One of Nagash’s wights was running directly at him, its movements swift and fluid as a serpent’s. The black blade in the skeletal lord’s hand shone like polished midnight.

  Vittrik’s aim had better be good, the Grey Lord hoped.

  * * *

  The two sides came together in a rolling crash of metal, flesh and bone. The northmen in the front rank struck the wall of polearms and were killed almost immediately, cut down by the storm-walkers’ heavy blades. The second rank of barbarians suffered a similar fate, but now Nagash’s lieutenants were past the enemy’s long-hafted weapons and striking at the ratmen with their fearsome blades. The northmen quickly followed suit, hacking with sword and axe at the wooden hafts of the enemy’s weapons and forcing their way deeper into the opposing formation. The clangour of battle became punctuated by the thudding of metal against flesh and the screams of the maimed and the dying. Northmen and rat-creatures fell by the score. The enemy line bowed backwards at the fury of the barbarians’ charge, but refused to give way.

  Nagash unleashed another storm of magical bolts, this time aimed at raking the top of the dais. The streaks of fire arced over the melee, falling like thunderbolts, but once again they were dispelled before they could find their mark. Again and again he struck at the foe, but each time the enemy sorcerer was able to counter the spell. The battle raged back and forth across the killing ground, with neither side able to claim the upper hand. Frustrated, the necromancer switched tacks and turned his magic on his bodyguards. He added to their vigour, increasing the wights’ speed and strength, and this time the enemy made no move to counter him. His lieutenants tore into the ranks of the ratmen, toppling enemy warriors left and right, but he knew that they were too few in number to carry the fight alone. Beside the necromancer, Akatha sang the war-song of the northmen, stoking the bloodlust of the barbarian warriors.

  As the battle raged, a lone figure appeared to the left of the killing ground. It was one of Bragadh’s northmen, his armour battered and bloody and his right arm useless at his side. He caught sight of Nagash and Akatha and ran to them, his expression grim.

  “Master!” the warrior shouted. “Master! Lord Bragadh says that the ratmen are attacking from the tunnels in great numbers! Thestus has been driven back, and Bragadh is hard-pressed! He asks for Diarid to lend his strength to them, or else they cannot hold!”

  Nagash turned and glared at the messenger. There will be no retreat! The power of his thoughts was such that even the barbarian’s living mind could not help but feel its weight. Bragadh must hold to the last! To the last!

  The wounded northman staggered beneath the lash of the necromancer’s black thoughts. “But… Diarid…” he stammered.

  Diarid had problems of his own. Nagash could hear the sounds of battle off to his right clearly enough. Both flanks were being hard pressed. Before he could reply, however, a chorus of dry, crackling hisses echoed across the killing field, followed by a drumbeat of hollow detonations and a chorus of agonised screams.

  The necromancer whirled, just in time to see a trio of small green globes loft into the air from the dais. They flew high overhead, trailing thin plumes of smoke and a crackling hiss, before plunging into the ranks of the northmen. They struck with a flash of greenish light and a whump of hot air, bathing the warriors around the impact point with a gout of sorcerous fire. The ravening flame scoured its victims down to bone in seconds and sowed panic among the barbarians close by. The northmen wavered under the onslaught, and with a hoarse shout the ratmen began to push back, forcing the barbarians and wights onto the defensive.

  At once, Nagash saw the full scope of the trap the ratmen had laid for him. The tide of battle was shifting quickly; in another few moments the ratmen would have a decisive advantage.

  The moment of truth had come.

  Nagash turned to Akatha. This ends now, he told her. I will kill the warlord of the ratmen myself.<
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  The necromancer raised his obsidian blade and strode forwards. Barely a dozen yards separated him from the rear ranks of the northmen. Another three yards past that, and he would be in the thick of battle. He oriented himself on the last place he saw the enemy leader, and headed that way. From the dais, another volley of fire-globes lofted into the air on hissing streaks of fire. Nagash prepared a counter-spell, thinking that he might be able to at least dissipate the sorcerous power of the flames.

  He did not sense the death-bolt until it was already upon him.

  The spear of magical energy struck Nagash squarely between the shoulderblades. The protective wards woven into his armour flared to life, attempting to turn aside the blow, but the power behind the spell was too great. Bronze scales glowed red-hot as the bolt transfixed the necromancer, tearing through his body and erupting from the front of his scale breastplate.

  Nagash howled in anger and pain. The impact of the bolt spun the necromancer halfway about and threw him to the ground. Such a blow would have turned a living man to ash; as it was, Nagash’s spine and ribcage had been shattered, and his access to the power he’d consumed was suddenly disrupted. For the first time in centuries, the necromancer felt a moment of horror as his vision blurred and the blackness of oblivion yawned before him. It was only by a supreme effort of will that he was able to claw his way back from the brink.

  The vision of darkness faded just as Akatha launched a second attack. The bolt of power sped from her fingers like an arrow; Nagash uttered a counter-spell, but there was little power behind it. He deflected enough of the witch’s attack that his armour absorbed the rest, leaving behind a palm-sized patch of melted bronze scales across his chest.

  Instinctively, Nagash flung out his hand and unleashed a stream of glowing darts at Akatha, but again, there was little power behind the spell; once again, the unseen rat-wizard atop the dais wove a counter-spell to nullify it. The darts flashed and popped harmlessly about the witch’s body. Akatha threw back her head and laughed.

  Nagash struggled to regain his feet. His limbs wavered, threatening to collapse beneath him, but with an angry cry he forced himself upright. His voice echoed hollowly in Akatha’s mind.

  The traitor reveals herself at last.

  That gave Akatha pause. She studied him intently from behind her fall of hair. “You knew?”

  There were too many coincidences. No enemy is so lucky in war. He took a step towards her. You were careful, and clever. I suspected, but I could never be certain. Until now.

  Nagash reached out his hand. His skeletal fingers made a fist, as though closing around the witch’s heart. Body and soul, you are mine to command, witch. You have broken your oath to me, and thus your life is forfeit.

  He reached into her, seizing upon the potency of the elixir that gave Akatha her power—but when he tried to wrest it from her, nothing happened. A magical ward, subtle but potent, prevented him from draining her vitality.

  The witch laughed again, a sound both joyous and full of contempt.

  “Did you imagine I’d forgotten?” Akatha replied. “You damned fiend. The witches of the north forget nothing.” Her fingers brushed a small token of burning stone hanging about her neck. “I’ve had centuries to plan your demise, Nagash of the Wastes. Nothing has been left to chance.”

  She swept her hand in a vicious arc, hurling another bolt of power his way. His weak counterspell did little to deflect it. The spell bored into his midsection, disrupting his spiritual corpus even further. Darkness, cold and empty, began to seep into the corners of his vision. Nagash staggered, but did not fall.

  It was you who brought the ratmen here.

  Akatha’s pale lips curved in a mirthless smile. “Their love of the burning stone was well known to us,” she hissed. “I began sending visions to their seers from the first night I set foot in these accursed halls. It took years, but eventually they came.” The witch chuckled cruelly. “How sweet it was, watching the vermin undo everything you’d built.”

  Nagash struggled to regain his strength. The darkness ebbed from his sight, but did not vanish completely. Akatha stood alone; Bragadh’s messenger had fled when the witch unleashed her first spell. Behind him, the sounds of fighting had grown desperate. The northmen were on the verge of breaking. The necromancer began a new incantation, feeding it power a bit at a time.

  When you heard my plan to attack the pavilion, you believed that your time had come.

  The witch raised her hand, preparing to cast another spell. “At first, I thought that I had been found out,” she said. “Why else go to all the trouble to dig the tunnels in secret? Then, when you ordered me to accompany you, I wondered if perhaps you were leading me into a trap.”

  Nagash’s burning eyes narrowed on Akatha. I was.

  They lurched and staggered from the darkness and the smoke behind the barbarian witch, eyes flickering with green fire. The corpses of dozens of ratmen, their bodies covered in black blood from the bite of the wights’ killing blades. Akatha didn’t hear their halting steps over the tumult of battle until their hands were reaching for her throat.

  They seized the witch, dragging her nearly off her feet. Akatha screamed in fury, struggling in their grip. The bolt she’d meant for Nagash ripped through their ranks instead, turning many of them to ash. Claws and fangs tore at her pale skin. She struck back with an immortal’s supernatural strength, breaking bones and crushing skulls with her fists. The witch fought like a desert lion, but the undead were implacable. They kept coming for her, reaching for her, until finally a hand closed about the magical token around her neck and ripped it free. Akatha’s body went rigid in an instant, gripped by Nagash’s hateful will.

  I knew that the enemy would be forewarned, he said to her. His voice was cold and cruel. I counted upon it. Now the enemy’s best troops are here, facing me, instead of at the barricades.

  Laughter filled Akatha’s mind. Darkness waits for you, witch. Darkness eternal. Go there, knowing that your life—and your treachery—have given me the final victory.

  Nagash reached inside the witch’s undead body and took that which belonged to him. Akatha, last witch of the northlands, uttered one final scream, then was gone. The ratmen pulled down her shrivelled husk and began to tear it limb from limb.

  High above, in the dark vaults of the fortress, a stir went through the ranks of the undead manning the barricades. Obeying their master’s command, the spear companies began to pull aside the barriers that separated them from the tunnels below.

  The going was slow at first, but before long the sounds of movement began to echo down the passageways from the levels above. One company of spearmen after another began to file into the vaults, their bones wreathed in cobwebs and the dust of decades. Long had they waited in secret, marshalled in great halls far from the eyes of the northmen or the spies of the invaders. They were Nagash’s reserves, clad in the best weapons and armour the foundries of Nagashizzar could make and held ready for the last battle, whether it was fought within the mine shafts, or the great hall of the necromancer himself.

  Behind the spear companies came a score of fearsome, armoured war engines, shaped in the guise of scarabs, or scorpions, or swift desert spiders. Some were the size of round shields, while others were larger than chariots. As the barriers were pulled aside they clattered without pause into the dark tunnels and began to hunt.

  The slave-rats opposite the barricades were caught entirely unprepared. They had been rushed into position to take the place of their betters, and the slave masters had been told that they would not be sent into battle. A counter-attack from the enemy was the very last thing they expected.

  The constructs attacked without warning, leaping from the shadows or falling from the ceiling into the midst of the slaves. Scores were dead before the slave masters understood what was happening. Most reacted as best they could, trying to rally the terrified slaves with curses, threats and the touch of the lash. Others panicked and ran, and their slaves fled mo
ments after.

  By the time the spear companies struck, there were already gaps in the enemy battle-line. Runners were sent to the lower levels, begging for reinforcements, but by then it was already too late. The relentless slaughter broke the slaves, who turned on their masters and ran, desperate to escape the oncoming skeletons. Nagash’s warriors followed, tireless and implacable, heeding their master’s call.

  The energy of the reclaimed elixir replaced a portion of the power that Nagash had lost. It was not enough to restore his shattered bones, but it lent strength to his limbs and allowed him to focus once more.

  The necromancer turned back to the battle. Between the ratmen and the globes of fire, his warriors had been reduced to little more than two hundred men. The wights alone were keeping the ratmen from driving the barbarians back, but now there were less than a handful left. Two of them were trading blows with the enemy warlord, whose armour appeared to be proof against the effects of the wights’ deadly blades.

  Nagash ordered the undead ratmen into the battle, directing them to work their way around the flanks of the enemy formation. Then he spread his arms and spent another portion of his waning power to raise the bodies of the northmen who’d been slain. The necromancer sensed a flare of power upon the dais as the rat-sorcerer grasped what Nagash was doing, but his attempts to counter the spell were feeble at best. Hundreds of bodies stirred fitfully, then began to climb back to their feet. At the same time, more globes of fire arced over the struggling warriors and plunged into the ranks of the newly raised undead. Scores of the slow-moving corpses were caught in the detonations; seconds later their charred bones collapsed to the ground and did not rise again.