The immortal scarcely felt the pain. Snarling, he snatched at the shafts, trying to yank them free, but the heads were barbed and refused to pull away. Worse, each arrow seemed to have a bulb of clay just behind the barbed head; when it struck the target, the bulb shattered, covering the area with a patch of sticky fluid the size of his palm. The sharp reek of the substance filled his nostrils at once. Pitch.
Ushoran’s joy was transformed to terror in the space of an instant. Two more arrows hit him—one dangerously close to his heart. He whirled about, seeking an avenue of escape.
Two more riders thundered past. Too late, Ushoran saw the torches guttering in their hands. The Lord of Masks had just enough time to scream before his body was enveloped in a sizzling column of flame.
“Forwards! Forwards, damn you!”
A Nehekharan spearman reached over the top of the wicker barricade and stabbed at Ankhat. The immortal knocked the point aside with his sword and crushed the man’s skull with a quick, backhand stroke. Around him, the warriors of the royal guard were hacking at the barricade’s defenders with their polearms, but making little headway.
Ankhat was furious. Just half an hour before he’d thought victory lay in his grasp. They’d met the barbarian battle-line and held the fools in place while the chariots swung around and struck them in the flank. Panic had taken hold and the mercenaries had turned and run. Exultant, Ankhat had let the Lahmians pursue their broken foes and they had slaughtered the lumbering northmen as they fled.
And then, without warning, the charging Lahmians had come upon the barricade. A fresh line of troops—Nehekharans this time, not wild-eyed barbarians, waited with spears and bows, and unleashed a fierce volley of shafts point-blank into the faces of the oncoming Lahmians. Fortunately for Ankhat’s men, the sheer inertia of their charge carried them into the enemy fortifications before they had time to register their shock. Had they time to think, the tired troops might have broken under the storm of arrow fire.
But now the attack had bogged down. Ankhat’s men were tired and the enemy fresh, and they defended the barricade with dogged determination. He had tried to signal the chariots to find the end of the fortifications and swing around it, but could not be sure if the message had been received or not.
Furious, the immortal prepared to make another leap onto the barricade. He’d tried three times before but had been thrown back. Enemy spears had struck him twice, but hadn’t managed to pierce his vitals.
The royal guardsmen were attacking the enemy with great courage, but even they were beginning to falter. Something had to be done, and quickly, or all would be lost.
Thinking quickly, Ankhat sheathed his sword and took hold of the wicker basket in front of him. It was almost as tall as a man and packed with hundreds of pounds of dirt and stone; he dug his fingers deep into its woven surface and summoned up all of his strength. With a savage cry he heaved the basket into the air and onto the defenders, who fell back with shouts of dismay.
The barricade was two baskets wide. At once, Ankhat pushed forwards and seized the next as well. A spear jabbed at him from the left, scoring his cheek, but the immortal paid it no heed. He grabbed the basket and flung it skywards just like the first, creating a narrow gap in the enemy’s defences.
Suddenly, far off to the left, came the sound of trumpets. Ankhat felt a surge of savage joy. The chariots had come through at last! But then he realised that the sounds were coming from the Lahmian side of the barricade, rather than the opposite, and the signals were not ones that he was familiar with.
His bloodlust called to him to press forwards, but his instincts said that something had gone very wrong. The enemy pushed forwards, trying to seal off the breach. Gritting his teeth, Ankhat fell back, drawing his sword once more.
Now more horns were sounding to his left. These signals he knew and the sound caused his heart to sink. The spear companies on his flank were sounding the retreat!
Ankhat turned and shoved his way through the ranks of his own guardsmen. He had to see what was happening. Dragging his trumpeter with him, he made his way to the rear of the formation and peered into the darkness.
What he saw filled him with anger and dismay. The plain to the south was full of warriors, racing back in the direction of the city. Horsemen were charging through their midst, cutting down the fleeing men with spear or sword.
Ankhat understood what had happened in an instant. Enemy cavalry had counter-attacked in great numbers, scattering his chariots and striking his spearmen in the flank, just as they had done to the barbarians. The inexperienced soldiers had panicked and the result was a rout.
The attack had failed. There was no way his surviving companies could press forwards with enemy cavalry sweeping around behind him. Now he had to focus on getting back inside the city before he was completely surrounded.
Ankhat quickly took stock of the situation. There was no chance of reaching the south gate—the terrain favoured the cavalry, allowing them to outmanoeuvre the retreating infantry and cut them off. Their only hope was to pull back and withdraw to the north-east, hoping to reach the city’s western gate.
They’d done all they could, Ankhat thought bitterly. It was up to W’soran and his undead warriors now.
Alcadizzar glanced up as the tent flap was pulled aside. Faisr rushed into the tent, beckoning to the servants for a cup of wine. “You sent the Iron Legion just in time,” he said, taking the offered cup and draining it to the dregs. “Another few minutes and we would have been lost.”
“Prince Heru?” the king inquired.
“Still fighting with his kinsmen. The Rasetrans are a courageous bunch, I’ll say that for them. They’ve paid a steep price in blood tonight, and the fighting’s not done.”
Alcadizzar pointed at the map. “I just got a message from Omorose. The Numasi have broken the attack on the right. How bad are things on the left?”
“Bad.” Faisr shook his head. “The dead just keep coming. You kill one and three more take their place.”
“What about the necromancer? Can’t you find him?”
The chieftain shook his head. “He’s not out there. Some brave souls even circled around the horde and searched the necropolis. We found one of the monsters leading the horde and hurt him badly, maybe even destroyed him. It didn’t make any difference.”
The king turned his attention back to the map, frowning thoughtfully. “He has to be out there somewhere,” he mused. “Everything Rakh-amn-hotep wrote about the undead is that the risen corpses can’t think for themselves. They have to be guided by the necromancer who raised them. So he has to be in a place where he can see enough of the battlefield to give them proper commands.”
At that moment, a wide-eyed messenger stumbled into the tent. Gasping for breath, he bowed to Alcadizzar. It took a moment for the king to understand that the boy was from Khemri and thus one of his subjects.
“Great one! The centre is under attack!”
Alcadizzar straightened. “Attacked? How? By what?”
“Creatures!” the boy said. “Pale creatures in armour, with the faces of women.”
The king gave Faisr a knowing glance. “How many?”
“I-I don’t know! Four or five, perhaps. But they’re killing everyone! Killing them, or driving them mad. The Devoted have lost many men already.”
“Where did they come from?”
“The-the western gatehouse, we think. Some say they jumped right off the city wall, as though it was nothing more than a stepping-stool!”
Alcadizzar began to see what was happening. Neferata had been watching the battle unfold from the gatehouse, gauging his response. The attacks on the left and right had both been feints, meant to weaken the centre. Now she had entered the fray—and he knew where she was heading.
The king rose to his feet. “Gather your people,” he said to Faisr. “We’re going to finish this.” Then he beckoned to two of his messengers. “You, fetch my horse,” he said to one young boy. “And you, I want
you to carry a message to the Lybarans as fast as you can.”
Neferata and her maidens walked beneath the moonlight and chaos and death rode in their wake.
They came upon the enemy battle-lines like wives welcoming their husbands home from battle; arms outstretched, faces lit with desire. Men looked upon their faces and lost all control. Some fled screaming, while still others turned their blades on their fellows in a mad fit of jealousy and passion. The few men of iron will who could not be swayed, who remembered their oaths and tried to put an end to Neferata and her maidens, were torn apart by the immortals’ talons.
A company of javelin throwers charged at Neferata and let fly; white-robed priests from Mahrak leapt between her and the oncoming missiles, screaming in horror even as they shielded her with their bodies. A moment later the javelin throwers had drawn their short swords and were locked in combat with a company of spearmen, warriors whom they had perhaps shared a meal with just a few hours before. Their faces were contorted into masks of agony and disbelief. They knew that what they were doing was wrong, but were powerless to stop it.
Within minutes, the queen and her maidens became separated by the wild melee. Neferata would catch glimpses of them from time to time, walking calmly among the slaughter like the eye of a raging summer storm. They moved steadily westwards, towards the centre of the camp. The place where, she was sure, Alcadizzar waited. At long last, she would see him again.
A quartet of chariots came rumbling out of the darkness, heading straight for her. The queen met the gaze of the driver in the lead chariot. The man’s eyes widened, his expression suddenly transformed from anger to utter, mindless desire. He cast a jealous glance over his shoulder at the other charioteers, and with a snarl, he hauled upon the reins. The chariot veered sharply right, into the path of those behind it, causing a horrendous collision. Horses fell, shrieking in fear and pain, and the air was filled with pieces of broken wood and broken men.
Miraculously, the driver of the lead chariot survived. He staggered to his feet, blood pouring from his face and from a deep cut on his arm. The man rushed to Neferata, hands reaching for her face. Without breaking stride she caught the man’s wrists and pulled him close, tearing out his throat with a single, vicious bite.
Slingstones buzzed through the air like angry bees. Several struck sparks off Neferata’s iron scales; another buried itself in her forehead with a dull, smacking sound. Grimacing irritably, she plucked the round stone free with thumb and fingertip and tossed it aside.
Off to her left, a woman screamed. Neferata turned to see one of her maidens stagger, clutching at a javelin that had struck her in the heart. Men rushed to her as she fell; several began hacking at her body with their swords, while the others fought to possess her. Even in death—the true death—she continued to spread havoc among the enemy.
Minutes later, another maiden fell, this time crushed to pulp beneath the weight of a tumbling chariot. By now, panic and confusion had taken hold and most of the enemy were fleeing in terror, racing back towards the centre of camp. Five women had broken the hearts and minds of thousands of warriors in a matter of minutes.
Neferata watched the enemy roll away from her in a swift tide, leaving behind a field littered with fallen weapons, helmets and shields. The queen laughed mockingly, delighted at the ruination of her foes. Alcadizzar had underestimated her power and now all of Nehekhara would pay the price.
—
Last Stand
Lahmia, the City of the Dawn, in the 107th year of Ptra the Glorious
(-1200 Imperial Reckoning)
The battle had shifted. From his vantage point at the gatehouse, W’soran could see that Ankhat’s attack on the left had been broken by the sudden appearance of enemy cavalry. Most of the Lahmian troops had turned and fled, only to be mercilessly ridden down long before they reached the safety of the city gates. The rest, now anchored at the far end of the line by the city’s royal guard, had pivoted towards the south-east and were now slowly withdrawing northwards, under pressure both from enemy spear companies and increasingly large numbers of cavalry. Fortunately for Ankhat and his men, their path to the western gate was largely clear, thanks to the chaos wrought by Neferata and her maidens. In the centre, the queen and her companions had put the weakened enemy to flight and were driving inexorably into the heart of the invaders’ camp.
On the right, the necromancer’s forces had been brought to a grinding stalemate by the timely arrival of fresh troops from the enemy’s centre. That was still good news for Neferata, for as long as the undead kept the bulk of the enemy’s infantry pinned down, then Lahmia still had a chance at victory, but W’soran felt cheated nonetheless. It was his sorceries that had made the attack possible in the first place! The victory should be his as well.
W’soran leafed through the pages of Nagash’s tomes, looking for a spell or ritual that might tip the balance of the fight in his favour. If there was some way to increase the speed or strength of his troops, perhaps…
A strange sound from the west caused the necromancer to pause. It was a thin, high-pitched whistling faint but growing louder moment by moment. He frowned, trying to place the noise, when it passed just above the gatehouse and seemed to plunge into the city beyond. A second later came a huge, muffled thump and a crash of falling brick that reverberated through the stones beneath his feet.
The necromancer’s eyes widened. With a cry, he shut the book and scrambled for the rest of Nagash’s tomes, resting on the floor by the ritual circle just a few feet away, just as a chorus of similar whistles rose into the sky from the west.
The next catapult stone fell short, hitting the ground with a dull thud and then crashing into the western gate. W’soran heard the sound of splintering wood below as he gathered the ancient books into his arms. He turned and raced for the nearest door just as four more catapult stones, each the size of a small chariot, came smashing through the gatehouse wall.
Ankhat turned at the sound of grinding stone and watched in horror as the top of the western gatehouse collapsed in a torrent of dust and broken rock. Another catapult stone whistled through the air, and by sheer bad luck, came in at a shallow angle and struck the face of the western gate. The immortal could hear the sound of splintering wood from where he stood, some two hundred yards away.
The royal guards and the surviving spear companies were paying for every step they took in blood. Arrows fell among their ranks in a steady rain and enemy cavalry kept nipping at their flanks. He had lost track of the number of charges they’d suffered since the withdrawal began, but the field before them was littered with the bodies of horses and men.
There were only two companies of spearmen left on their right. The royal guard had suffered terribly, having lost more than two-thirds of their number, but their resolve never wavered.
The one thing that had held them together thus far was the realisation that Neferata herself had taken the field, and had put the entire enemy centre to flight. From his place at the rear of the retreating guardsmen, Ankhat searched the darkness off to the north-west for any sign of the queen, but it was hard to make out anyone amid the swirling mass of panicked troops. The amount of death and destruction she had left in her wake was both awesome and terrifying at the same time.
Just then, as the last echoes of the gatehouse’s collapse faded away, Ankhat saw the swirling mob off to the far right simply melt away, like morning mist. Men scattered in every direction, revealing the pale forms of Neferata and two of her maidens, stalking inexorably westwards through the carnage they’d wrought.
For a moment, Ankhat’s spirits lifted—and then he saw the solid wall of enemy horsemen approaching Neferata from the centre of the camp.
* * *
The desert horsemen rode knee to knee, an uncharacteristically tight formation for the swift-moving raiders, but it ensured that nothing would get past them and into the midst of the undefended inner camp. Alcadizzar and Faisr rode side-by-side at the centre of t
he formation, searching the swirling mass of panicked troops in front of them for any sign of the undead. Warriors from Mahrak and Khemri scattered to the left and right at the riders’ approach. The look of confusion and fear on their faces was an unsettling sight, but the horsemen clutched their powerful bows tightly and forged ahead through the press.
Catapult stones whistled overhead, falling on the distant gatehouse. A cheer went up from the riders as the gatehouse was demolished; moments later, another chorus of shouts and cheers off to their left told Alcadizzar that his intuition had been correct. The necromancer’s ritual had been disrupted and Lahmia’s dead were returning to their original state.
There was little time for relief, however. Ahead of the horsemen, the mob of panicked troops suddenly cleared away, revealing the wide trade road and the rocky fields that led up to the city gate. Hundreds of bodies lay everywhere, many locked together in mortal combat. The warriors of Mahrak and Khemri had all but destroyed one another, their minds twisted by Neferata’s seductive glamour.
Alcadizzar saw her at once. She and two other pale-skinned monsters were walking towards them across the corpse-strewn fields, less than a hundred yards away. Even from so great a distance, he could feel the weight of their predatory stares against his skin. Even the horses felt it. They rolled their eyes and tossed their heads with fright, causing their riders to exchange worried glances and murmurs of concern, for the horses of the desert tribes were famed for their courage and high spirits.
The king raised his hand, and Faisr called for the riders to halt. “Don’t let them get close enough to look in their eyes!” he warned.
[Nagash 03] - Nagash Immortal Page 41
