“Asar and my father are in Ka-Sabar now, as guests of King Aten-sefu,” Khalida interjected coolly. “And Ubaid’s interests run to horses and hawks these days.”
The queen’s tone stung Alcadizzar. “Of course. Hawks and horses. How forgetful of me.” The king sighed inwardly and beckoned to a group of robed men standing off to the right of the dais. They wore metal skullcaps, like priests, and gripped staffs of cedar or sandalwood.
“Suleiman,” the king called. “What do you make of this?”
A tall, dignified, older man stepped forwards, joining Rahotep and peering closely at the blade for several moments. He reached out and lightly touched the sword, just as the explorer had done, and his eyebrows rose. “Truly a marvel,” he said to the king. “A form of elemental sorcery unlike anything we have seen before. There are no runes in its shaping; it is as though the very essence of the sun has been worked into the metal.”
Alcadizzar nodded sagely, even though his knowledge of magic was still very limited. The knowledge had been brought to Nehekhara from the far north, by intrepid sailors and explorers like Lord Rahotep, and given to learned men to emulate and master. In the first decade of his reign, Alcadizzar had founded a collegium of magic in Khemri, knowing full well that the other cities would waste no time creating their own. Without the gifts that had once been granted them by the gods, it was imperative that the Nehekharans find new sources of power to counter Nagash’s foul magic. The forges at Ka-Sabar were making small amounts of enchanted arms and armour each year now, which were purchased and stored in armouries across the land.
Rahotep smiled at the king. “The mountain-lords save their runes for truly powerful weapons,” he said. “Morgrim swore to me that a blade like this requires no great skill to make.”
“Indeed?” the king said. “Then would the mountain-lords be willing to teach us how to make them?”
The explorer spread his hands. “It’s possible. King Morgrim has invited you to be his guest at his hold, to share the tales of our two peoples and discuss how we may work together in the future.”
Alcadizzar brightened. The prospect of meeting the mountain-lords and seeing their creations excited him. “How far a journey is it to the World’s Edge Mountains?”
“Six weeks, if the weather is cooperative,” Rahotep answered. “We could travel there in the early autumn, and winter there until the passes open again.”
Six weeks, Alcadizzar thought. It could be done. If the trade negotiations were concluded quickly enough, it was just possible. He turned to Khalida, smiling hopefully—only to find her already watching him, her expression bleak.
Slowly, deliberately, she withdrew her hand.
“The king may do as he pleases, of course,” she said without being asked and looked away.
Alcadizzar’s heart sank. “We will consider the invitation,” he said, turning back to Rahotep with a half-hearted smile. “You have my thanks for your efforts on behalf of the empire, my lord. I look forwards to hearing a fuller report on the morrow.”
Rahotep bowed gracefully and withdrew. Servants came forwards from the shadows to take charge of the king’s magnificent gifts. Alcadizzar watched the explorer depart through the crowd of restless petitioners and felt the bitter sting of envy.
No sooner had Rahotep gone than Inofre reappeared, hurrying down the processional towards the throne. The Grand Vizier gripped his hands together nervously, and his sweaty face was pale. Alcadizzar frowned, seeing that Inofre was alone.
“Well?” the king asked. “What now?”
Inofre looked from Alcadizzar to the remote face of the queen. “A great host of desert riders have arrived and are making camp south of the city,” he said. “Ophiria is with them. She says you must come to her at once.”
A hot wind, reeking of burnt metal and ash, howled like a tormented spirit around the top of the high tower. The Lahmian stood as still as a statue, his eyes glittering with fear as Nagash stood before him. The Undying King reached out and gripped the side of the necromancer’s face, the tip of his armoured thumb hovering just beneath W’soran’s eye. Slowly, deliberately, Nagash pressed the tip of his thumb against W’soran’s withered flesh and drew it downwards, etching a glowing green line into skin and bone.
“Go forth,” intoned the Undying King, “into the lands of men, where the name of Nagash has been forgotten.” He etched the first part of the sigil all the way to the bottom of W’soran’s jaw, then lifted his thumb and began the second mark, clawing a curve along the line of the necromancer’s cheekbone.
A faint tremor shook W’soran’s skeletal frame as Nagash etched the sigil of binding into his face. The Undying King could taste the necromancer’s agony, and noted with approval how W’soran fed upon the suffering, as he had been taught. When the Lahmian had first arrived at Nagashizzar, his skill at necromancy had been rudimentary at best. It had taken many years of instruction to mould him into a potent and useful servant. Arkhan, by comparison, had improved much more swiftly, perhaps because his sojourn in the lands of the dead had given him a greater facility with spirits. Because of this, and because Nagash knew of his skills as a warlord, Arkhan would have overall command of the Undying King’s host. W’soran—and the dozen barbarians he had bequeathed his peculiar brand of immortality to—would serve as Arkhan’s lieutenants and champions and take charge of individual legions as the liche saw fit. He would need every necromancer at his disposal to control the vast army that Nagash had created. The effort would tax their abilities to the utmost.
“Go you to the great cities and cast them down,” Nagash continued, weaving the incantation that would bind W’soran to his legions. “Cast down the palaces of the proud kings. Cast down the temples of the fallen gods. Fill every well with dust and every road with ash. Let the winds carry the lamentations of the people to the far corners of the world.”
Nagash drew his hand away. The sigil of binding pulsed fitfully against W’soran’s grey skin.
“In the name of Nagash the Undying, go forth, faithful servant, and conquer.”
The necromancer wove unsteadily on his feet for a moment, but then bowed his head. “It shall be done, great one,” he said in a hollow voice. “I swear it.”
Nagash turned away. The wind hissed across the jagged surface of his armour as he strode to the edge of the tower and looked down upon his assembled host.
They had been marching out from the depths of the fortress for days, and would continue to do so for several days more, taking their places along the shores of the dark sea. The long shoreline had been cleared of debris for leagues to the north and south, where huge ships of bone waited to carry the army to Nehekhara.
The shoreline glittered coldly in the wan moonlight, reflecting off countless spear-points and tarnished helms. Hundreds of companies of spearmen and archers, hordes of skeletal cavalry and sickle-bladed chariots, and huge, thundering engines of war; it was his hatred for the living given form, as vast and pitiless as the desert sands.
The Undying King raised a smoking fist to the heavens. “Now let the end of the living world begin.”
—
Holding Back the Darkness
Khemri, the Living City, in the 110th year of Djaf the Terrible
(-1163 Imperial Reckoning)
Nagash is coming.
The warning sped to every corner of Nehekhara, sent from the collegium of sorcery in Khemri to each of the great cities, and thence to the ears of the empire’s vassals. Within hours, horns were sounding from the palaces, summoning their fighting men to war.
A strategy had been devised decades before in anticipation of the Usurper’s return, its particulars refined every year by a war council convened by Alcadizzar in Khemri. Each city’s army had a specific role to play in the grand strategy, plus a strict timetable in which to complete their assigned tasks. It was similar in some ways to the complex movement of armies that occurred during the Lahmian campaign almost forty years prior, but altogether more c
omplex and difficult to achieve.
During the first few months after Ophiria’s arrival at Khemri, a steady stream of messages flowed from the palace to the collegium and back again. Alcadizzar worked day and night from the relative seclusion of his personal library, communicating with his vassal kings and directing the mobilisation of the empire. Roughly four weeks after receiving Ophiria’s warning, the armies of Rasetra and Ka-Sabar had assembled and were on the march, both rushing northwards to reach their assigned places ahead of the Usurper’s forces. Meanwhile, on the river docks outside Khemri, every barge the city’s merchants owned had been pressed into service, while the city’s army mustered in the fields to the south.
There were hundreds of decisions, small and large, to be made each and every day. Alcadizzar quickly learned that being able to communicate with his allies across such vast distances was a double-edged sword. He was deluged with questions, requests, clarifications and reports at every turn, until it became a challenge just to sift through the flood and determine which messages needed attention and which did not.
Ironically, the more Alcadizzar knew, the more he worried about the things he didn’t know. Where were Nagash’s forces? How large were they? How fast were they moving? He reviewed his battle plans over and over, looking for hidden flaws that the enemy could exploit.
The king was standing before a large wooden table in the centre of the library, studying a detailed map of the empire, when he heard the door to the library quietly open. He sighed inwardly, rubbing at his eyes. “Yes?” he asked, expecting yet another handful of messages from the collegium.
“Inofre says you haven’t left this room in days. Is something wrong?”
Alcadizzar turned in surprise at the sound of Khalida’s voice. His wife stood close to the library’s door, surveying the cluttered desks and reading tables with a mix of scholarly interest and mild apprehension. She was dressed simply, as was her habit when not attending court, clad in dark cotton robes and silk slippers. A desert headscarf was wrapped loosely about her braided hair. It accentuated the worry lines that creased her forehead and etched the corners of her eyes.
Too exhausted and too surprised to think properly, Alcadizzar shook his head and said, “No more or less wrong than the day before.”
“Then why are you still awake? It’s well past midnight.”
Alcadizzar frowned. He had no idea it was so late. The library had no windows, being in the centre of the royal apartments, so there was no easy way to mark the passage of time. He ran a hand over his face, trying to rub the tiredness away. “Going over reports,” he replied dully. “Making sure there’s nothing I’ve missed.”
Khalida joined him beside the map table and peered closely at his face. “You look ten years older,” she murmured. Her fingertips lightly brushed his temples. “There’s grey in your hair that wasn’t there a month ago.”
The king managed a half-hearted smile. “That’s what you get for marrying such an old man,” he joked.
Khalida scowled. “Be serious,” she said. “You’re exhausted. I can see it in your eyes.”
The smile faded from Alcadizzar’s face. He looked down at the map, eyes sweeping over symbols and notations that he’d burned into his memory over the past weeks. He shook his head. “It weighs on me,” the king said. “Every moment of every day. When I try to sleep, all I can think of is this damned map.”
“I know,” Khalida replied. “You always fret like this before a campaign.”
“Not like this,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn’t about taxes, or trade, or expanding the borders of the empire. This is about life and death—or something altogether worse than death.” Alcadizzar sighed. “The empire is depending on me. If I fail, then every living thing from Lybaras to Zandri will suffer.”
Alcadizzar was surprised to feel Khalida’s arms slide about his waist and draw him close. It made him think of the first time she’d embraced him, on the road to Khemri with the tribes. He’d thought desert women were quiet and pliable back then, Ophiria notwithstanding. Khalida had shown him how utterly wrong his impressions were.
“You will not fail,” she told him, in a voice that brooked no dissent. “This is the moment you’ve been preparing for. It’s the whole reason the empire exists.” She rested her head on his shoulder, and her voice softened. “In all my life, I’ve never known a man more devoted to anything.”
The words stung, whether she’d meant them to or not. He put his arms around her. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For letting all this come between us,” Alcadizzar replied. “I’ve been a poor husband these past few years.”
“But a great king,” Khalida said. She reached up and wiped at her cheek. She gestured at the map. “Look at all you’ve done.”
“I’d give it all up in an instant if you asked me to.”
“You wouldn’t,” Khalida said, laughing weakly. “Don’t be stupid.”
The king laughed along with her. “I’m not,” he protested. “Once this is over, things will be different. No more travelling. No more campaigns. No more pacing the floor at all hours of the night. We’ll finally do all those things we dreamed about.”
“You’ll take me to the Silk Lands in a barge made of gold?”
Alcadizzar smiled. “If you wish.”
“And you’ll make the Celestial Emperor bow before me?”
“He won’t need much encouragement, once he sets eyes on you.”
Khalida chuckled and hugged him tight. “Promise?”
The king smiled. “With all my heart.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” she said. “So. When do we march?”
“We?”
Khalida disentangled herself and gave Alcadizzar a stern look. “You expect me to stay here? I’ve ridden with you on every campaign since we were married and I do not plan on stopping now.”
The very idea filled Alcadizzar with dread, but he knew that there was no point in arguing. Even the authority of kings had its limits.
“Zandri’s forces have already left and are travelling upriver now,” he said, tracing his finger along the length of the River Vitae. “The Numasi are on the move as well, they should be here in two weeks. Another two or three days to load their army and ours onto the barges, then we’ll be ready to go.”
Khalida nodded. “And the rest?”
“The Iron Legion left Ka-Sabar two weeks ago and are headed north to Quatar. Rasetra’s forces left at roughly the same time and Heru reports that they’ll be at Lybaras in another week or so.” He folded his arms. “There’s been no word from Mahrak in weeks. I fear the Hieratic Council is reconsidering its role in the plan.”
The queen nodded. Though she hadn’t been directly involved in drafting the battle plan, she’d pieced it together over the years, and knew it as well as any of the other rulers. “It’s not hard to understand. You’ve placed them in a difficult position.”
“It wasn’t by choice, but they don’t seem to believe that,” Alcadizzar said. “They’ve been suspicious of my motives ever since I started the sorcerer’s collegium. But abandoning the city is the only realistic option. If they won’t join Rasetra and Lybaras, at least they could withdraw to the Gates of the Dusk, where they could hold the eastern end of the Valley of Kings for many weeks—certainly long enough for their people to reach the far end of the valley and take refuge in Quatar.”
“It’s not that easy a decision for them. They’re trying to preserve their faith,” Khalida pointed out.
“Not if they manage to get themselves killed in the process,” Alcadizzar retorted. “It will be a bitter irony if the Hieratic Council’s own mistrust and paranoia proves to be their downfall.”
“If that is their fate, then there’s nothing we can do,” Khalida said. “But they may surprise us yet. There is still some time left before Nagash’s army crosses the Golden Plain.”
Alcadizzar nodded, but his expression was doubtful. “We can hope,” he said.
“At this point, it’s all we can do.”
Propelled along the dark waters by sweeping oars of bone, the undead fleet took two long weeks to cross the narrow straits and reach the ruined harbour at Lahmia. They arrived in the dead of night, concealed by a spreading stain of ashen cloud that swallowed the light of the moon. In the years since the fall of the city it had become home to squatters and bandit gangs from all over eastern Nehekhara—desperate men and women who laughed at the legends of the Cursed City’s past. W’soran stood upon the deck of his transport ship and listened to their screams as the undead host spread silently through Lahmia’s narrow streets.
Hour upon hour, the heavily laden ships came and went from the great stone quays, pouring a steady flood of spectral troops into the city. It was well past daybreak when W’soran’s turn came to disembark, riding upon a palanquin of bone that moved like a spider on eight long, segmented legs. He rode the undead engine through the preternatural gloom, making his way up the hill to the remains of the royal palace. There he remained over the next several days, while the army slowly gathered on the plains south of the city.
The necromancer amused himself by picking through the ashes of the old temple, both from curiosity and for the simple reason that he knew Arkhan would not come within a mile of his former prison unless he had to. Sharing control of the army—and the glory of victory—with the damned liche galled W’soran no end. For years he had tried to think of a way to engineer Arkhan’s demise—certain that the liche planned the same fate for him. At Nagashizzar, under Nagash’s unblinking gaze, he could not think of a way to destroy the liche without considerable risk to himself, so W’soran had bided his time, waiting for the invasion to begin. Though Arkhan’s necromantic skills might be marginally better than his at present, W’soran now had the advantage of numbers on his side. His seven progeny together accounted for control of nearly half the army. All he had to do was watch and wait for the right opportunity to push the damned liche into the enemy’s hands.
[Nagash 03] - Nagash Immortal Page 45
