[Nagash 03] - Nagash Immortal

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  Another ball of fire crackled just overhead, spilling motes of burning pitch onto Arkhan’s shoulders. With a curse, he ordered his horse archers to fire one volley at the men on the first wall and then withdraw out of range. The enemy’s defences were far stronger than he’d imagined possible. He would have to waste precious time until the rest of the army arrived before he could contemplate an assault.

  His plan in tatters, Arkhan wheeled his horse around and retreated from the killing ground, his mind seething as he contemplated his next move.

  The western army stopped only when absolutely necessary to spare the horses and feed the men. Everyone, from the king to the lowliest spearman, was dull-eyed with fatigue, but they had made good time along the mountain road and had crossed the Gates of the Dusk in only ten days. As the warriors sat alongside the trade road that wound along the rubble-strewn valley, they could still see the lingering pall of smoke that hung over the dead city of Mahrak to the north-east. It was a grim sight, reminding them of the threat that loomed over all Nehekhara.

  Alcadizzar was resting his head against the side of his chariot when Suleiman, his chief wizard, came riding up the column on a borrowed horse. His arcane robes were stained brown with road-dust; lines of grit stood out sharply along the creases of his neck and the deep wrinkles around his eyes. His polished metal skullcap flashed brightly in the morning sun.

  “A message from Quatar,” the wizard said without preamble, leaning heavily on his staff. “Nagash’s army is at the Gates of the Dawn.”

  Alcadizzar sat forwards, instantly alert. “How many?”

  “A hundred thousand at least,” Suleiman replied. “But more are arriving each hour. It could be many times that number.”

  The king nodded gravely. “Can they hold the gates?”

  Suleiman nodded. “For now.”

  “Any word from Lybaras?”

  “Heru says that the city is still besieged. Reinforcements are on the way from Rasetra, but are not expected to arrive for almost a month.”

  Alcadizzar rubbed his aching eyes. So long as Heru and the Lybarans could hold the city, then they were drawing away thousands of warriors that his own army would not have to face in the valley. That would have to be enough.

  The king looked to the west, contemplating how hard he could push his exhausted men. “Tell Quatar to give me ten days. Tell them to do whatever they must, but I need ten days.”

  The first wall fell after two days of near-constant attacks. Arkhan ordered the skeletal companies forwards under a hail of arrow fire and a relentless barrage from the catapults that had been rushed to the battlefield. The defenders fought back tenaciously, using their own arrows and catapult fire to wreak havoc among the undead horde. Arkhan saw quickly that it wasn’t just white-armoured Tomb Guard who were manning the walls, but iron-clad heavy infantry from Ka-Sabar as well. They hurled sandstone blocks down on the skeletons, or doused them with pots of burning pitch; they smashed skulls and hacked off arms, or split ladders in half with polearms and axes.

  One assault after another was repulsed, but Arkhan was relentless. Finally, the catapults succeeded in making a breach around noon of the second day, and the liche ordered his cavalry through the gap. At that point, the defenders knew they had to retreat, or risk being cut off. They pulled back in good order, leaving some four thousand of their dead and wounded behind. Arkhan made certain that they were the front ranks of the next assault.

  The second wall held out much longer than the first. It was too high for ladders, and so thick that it shrugged off all but concentrated catapult fire. Arkhan raked the battlements with blasts of sorcery and repeated attacks by swift war engines, but each one was repulsed. Four attempts to batter down the gate were likewise defeated, crushed by heavy stones dropped from the gatehouse, or burned to ash by streams of burning pitch. Finally, after five days of effort, Arkhan persuaded W’soran to send in his immortals. The risk was great, since they were integral to the spells that animated and controlled the army. The death of even one would cost the undead host tens of thousands of troops. But the gamble paid off; the immortals scuttled up the wall like spiders, concealed from view by a wall of sorcerous fog conjured by W’soran. Within an hour, shouts of alarm sounded from along the wall as the second gate groaned open. The wall’s defenders launched one ferocious attack after another in a desperate attempt to retake the gatehouse and seal the gates, but to no avail. The survivors fled to the third and final wall with Arkhan’s cavalry right on their heels.

  After a week of constant attacks, Arkhan pulled back his forces and contemplated the final obstacle in his path. The third wall was too tall to climb and too thick for catapults. That left only the gate, which was made from two slabs of polished basalt some two feet thick.

  For two days, the grim defenders atop the third wall peered into the gloom, nervously clutching their weapons as they waited for the final assault to begin. By the third day, some atop the wall began to hope that the enemy had finally given up. King Alcadizzar and his forces had to be very close by now.

  And then, just past noon, they felt it, a faint, rhythmic tremor, vibrating through the stone beneath their feet. One slow beat after another, like the tread of giant feet.

  The bone giants weren’t built for height. They were relatively short—only about twelve feet tall at the shoulder—but very wide, with massive arms and four thick, stubby legs. There were six of them, each one composed of thousands of man-sized bones and plated with every piece of scavenged metal that Arkhan’s skeletons could find. Between them they carried a battering ram made from a sandstone column that was fifteen feet long and weighed tens of tons. The ground shook beneath their feet as they made their way through the second gate and towards the remaining wall. Several dozen smaller war engines scuttled along in the giants’ wake, their spindly legs crusted with old gore.

  Assembling the giants had required the efforts of not just Arkhan, but W’soran and all three of his immortals as well. The cost in time and energy had been great, but Arkhan reckoned it a small price to pay if it got them past the Gates of the Dawn.

  The liche sat upon his warhorse and watched the giants lumber off into the distance. Trumpets were already sounding the alarm atop the wall as the juggernauts became visible through the gloom. Most of the army’s cavalry and a few large skeletal companies stood ready on the far side of the second wall. The rest—belonging to W’soran and his immortals—waited in the space between the first and second walls, safe from enemy catapult fire. Arkhan turned to W’soran, who sat upon his palanquin at the edge of a ritual circle inscribed upon the ground. Six large clay jars rested in the centre of the circle; the necromancer’s three progeny stood at different points around the perimeter, waiting to begin the ritual.

  W’soran clutched a large, leather-bound tome in his bony hands. It was one of the ancient books of Nagash, returned to him by the Undying King just before leaving Nagashizzar. The necromancer searched through the pages for the proper ritual, then turned to Arkhan. “When shall we begin?”

  The liche gauged the distance between the giants and the wall. They would be in catapult range any moment. “Now,” he grated. “I will go forwards and lead the cavalry through the breach.”

  “Of course,” W’soran said, with only a hint of a sneer in his voice.

  Arkhan spurred his horse forwards, heading for his wight bodyguard and the waiting cavalry. The necromancer muttered a curse at his retreating back and then turned to his progeny. With nothing more than a curt nod, he raised his arms and began to chant.

  The three immortals joined in at once, adding their power to the rite. The energy built from one minute to the next, until the air above the circle crackled with unseen power. The heavy jars, each one as big as a grown man, began to tremble. Their lids rattled—slightly at first, but then louder and more energetically with each passing moment. W’soran’s voice increased in pitch, the words spilling from his lips in a buzzing crescendo. And then, with a crack of shatterin
g clay, the lids of the jars burst apart at once, and thousands upon thousands of black tomb beetles erupted from their depths. They rose into the air, joining together in a swirling oily-black cyclone that wavered for a moment above the ritual circle, then sped westwards, climbing swiftly until it broke like a hungry wave over the battlements.

  Shouts and agonised screams echoed from the top of the wall as the giants bore down upon the last gate.

  The desert tribesman crouched and marked lines in the sand with the point of his knife. “The enemy is through the first and second walls,” he said. “The first wall has a breach, here, and the gates are open. Most of the enemy army is between the first and second walls.”

  Alcadizzar studied the markings in the gloom. He was crouching beside his chariot, surrounded by his closest advisors: Khalida, Ophiria, Suleiman and Faisr’s eldest son, Muktadir. They were a quarter mile from the Gates of the Dawn, close enough to hear the sounds of battle in the distance. “What are they doing now?”

  “Hammering at the third gate with something very large. I could not see what. They are also using some kind of magic to blind the men atop the wall. It looks like a shimmering black cloud.”

  Alcadizzar looked to Suleiman. The wizard shook his head. “It could be anything,” he said. “But it means that at least some of their necromancers are busy performing the spell.”

  “It appears we have arrived just in time,” Muktadir observed. He was tall and rakishly handsome, as his father had been. Upon Faisr’s death, just five short years after the fall of Lahmia, Muktadir had risen to take his place as the great chieftain of the tribe. “We should strike quickly, while they are focussed on taking the third gate.”

  “Agreed,” Alcadizzar said. He turned back to the tribesman. “Does the enemy have any sentries on the first wall?”

  The warrior smiled wolfishly. “None.”

  Alcadizzar returned the smile. “Good. Suleiman, can you and your wizards conceal our approach as far as the first wall?”

  The wizard scratched his chin. “If they are distracted with their own rituals, then yes.”

  “All right,” the king said. “We’ll put archers along the first wall. They’ll fire as soon as the attack begins. I’ll lead the chariots through the first gate. Muktadir, take your tribesmen and heavy cavalry through the breach. The infantry will follow behind us as quick as they are able. Look for their necromancers. If we can destroy them, we’ll end this battle quickly.” He rose. Behind him, the army spread out across the valley in a vast battle-line, its ends hidden in the gloom. Part of him would have liked to have said something inspiring, right at the brink of battle, but circumstances prevented it. If they survived the next few hours there would be plenty of time for speeches later, he thought. “Suleiman, you ride with me.”

  Muktadir and his kinsmen mounted their horses and departed quickly, while Suleiman summoned a messenger and composed instructions for his fellow wizards. Alcadizzar took Khalida’s hand and turned to Ophiria. “Any last words of advice?” he asked the seer.

  The Daughter of the Sands was an old woman now, having served the tribes for more than a hundred years. Her face and hands were deeply wrinkled, but Alcadizzar could still see the coltish lines of the girl she once had been.

  She looked up at the king and shrugged. “Don’t get killed.”

  Despite the tension in the air, Khalida snorted in laughter. Alcadizzar gave Ophiria a mock frown. “What would we have ever done without you?”

  The seer leaned forwards and rested a hand on the side of each of their faces. Tears shone in her eyes. “Khsar turn his face from you in the battle to come,” she said in a wavering voice. “Let him unleash his hunger upon the foe, and gnaw their bones in his teeth.”

  Alcadizzar smiled. “Keep safe, Daughter of the Sands. Until we meet again.”

  With that, the king and queen climbed into their chariot. Suleiman climbed clumsily after them, then came the chariot’s two young bowmen. When all were aboard, Khalida tugged at the reins and the war machine clattered off into the darkness.

  Ophiria watched them go, knowing how the battle would end.

  The giants drew back the ram once more and smashed it against the gate. Arkhan could feel the concussion almost seventy-five yards away. The thunderous blow shook the stone slabs on their hinges and brought down another shower of powdered mortar from the arch above the gate. The huge constructs worked entirely unimpeded; every man atop the wall was beset by the buzzing storm of scarabs, or the swiftly-moving war engines. Another few blows, he thought, and the gates would start to crack.

  Arkhan turned to his cavalry and, with a thought, ordered a slow advance. Thousands of skeletal horsemen started forwards, walking slowly over the hard ground.

  Another blow echoed across the field, followed by a brittle shower of broken rock. Not long now, he thought.

  The archers went in first, racing up to the wall and disappearing through the gate. Within minutes they were spreading out across the top of the wall. After the last bowman had vanished, Alcadizzar ordered the cavalry forwards. Beside him, Suleiman clutched his staff and chanted in a low voice, muffling the sound of the wheels and the thudding of the horses’ hooves. Other wizards were doing the same with the infantry companies approaching behind them. With luck, the enemy would not know they were in danger until the charge began.

  Khalida crouched low behind the armoured rim of the chariot, reins gripped loosely in her hands. She’d strung her bow and had it ready upon her back. Alcadizzar leaned forwards and gripped her shoulder. “We’ll charge as soon as we emerge from the gate. No time and no point waiting for us to get into formation.”

  She nodded, intent on guiding the chariot through the approaching gate. Everything was strangely calm. The king gripped the hilt of his golden blade.

  Khalida snapped the reins as they entered the tunnel, bringing the horses to a canter. The sound of the wheels was deafening inside the tunnel; it seemed impossible that no one else could hear it. Within seconds, they had crossed through the first wall and emerged on the other side. At that moment, the queen drew her headscarf across her face and let out a wild, ululating battle cry. The horses broke into a charge.

  Alcadizzar drew his sword. The blade of the mountain-lords blazed in the darkness, like a splinter of the sun.

  “For Khemri!” he shouted. “For Nehekhara! Forwards!”

  * * *

  The ritual occupied W’soran’s total focus, guiding the scarabs and stoking their hunger with the slightest touch of his power. It required a delicate touch: too much, and the scarabs burned out, too little and they became tired and docile.

  He did not realise that the army was under attack until arrows started hissing all around them.

  Flashes of white peppered the ranks of the undead, toppling a skeletal warrior with each hit. Two shafts thunked into the back of his seat, while another struck one of his progeny in the shoulder. The immortal howled in pain, snapping the shaft of the arrow in his frantic efforts to remove it. He tore the arrow free with a convulsive wrench, leaving a smoking hole in his breast.

  The other immortals ducked for cover and the ritual came undone. Cursing, W’soran whirled about, searching the darkness for the source of the arrow fire.

  Trumpets wailed to the east, followed by the swelling thunder of horses’ hooves. The killing ground behind the undead host was packed with horsemen and chariots—tens of thousands of them—and they all seemed to be charging his way. At their centre was a man in golden armour, brandishing a fiery sword. W’soran’s heart went cold.

  “Alcadizzar!” he cried.

  The ram struck home again. This time Arkhan could see the cracks radiating through both doors, stretching all the way from the inner edge to the hinges. A shower of rock fragments fell to the ground, leaving a shallow crater in the surface of the right-hand gate. Arkhan hissed in anticipation and drew his sword.

  And then, without warning, the angry buzzing that had filled the air for nearly half an
hour fell ominously silent. Arkhan looked up to see a shower of tiny, black insects pattering along the battlements and coursing like rain down the sheer wall. The screams from above fell silent.

  Arkhan whirled his horse about, as though he could peer down the tunnel of the second gate and see what had interrupted the ritual. And then he heard the wailing of war-horns—not from the wall, but from the east, back the way he’d come.

  It wasn’t possible, the liche thought. The closest mortal armies were trapped at Lybaras, hundreds of miles away.

  And then he heard the rending crash of a cavalry charge striking home and knew for certain that, somehow, his forces were under attack.

  Alcadizzar’s sword sketched an arc of fire through the air and carved through two skeletal warriors as the chariot thundered past. Behind him, his two bowmen were firing as fast as they could draw arrows; the enemy was so tightly packed together that every shot almost guaranteed a hit. Suleiman was roaring incantations over the din of the battlefield, hurling bolts of power into the undead ranks.

  Around the king, the chariots of the royal guard had formed a wedge and driven deep into the enemy’s reserve formations. Heavy cavalry off to the left and right had smashed into the rear of the spear companies, smashing warriors to the ground with swords, axes and horse hooves. More arrows hissed overhead as the archers on the first wall adjusted their aim to fire over the heads of the Nehekharans.

  The initial attack had gone well. Against a mortal army, the result would have been chaos, but the undead simply turned about to face their new foe without a moment’s shock or hesitation. It would not be long at all before the cavalry was forced back by the sheer numbers of the enemy.