[Nagash 02] - Nagash the Unbroken

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  (-1599 Imperial Reckoning)

  Now that he had reached the mountain at long last, Nagash’s great work began in earnest. His first months were spent combing its slopes, crawling into each fissure like a spider and searching for ways to reach deeper into its heart. He’d hoped that the deposits of abn-i-khat would lie close to the surface, and that the vents were signs of ancient impacts that would point the way to the burning stone, but within the first few days he realised that his theory was only half-right. The fissures were mostly shallow crevices that narrowed quickly as they plunged even deeper into the rock. They weren’t the scars of multiple impacts, but the marks of a single, giant impact some incalculable time in the past. The burning stone had been driven deep into the mountain’s guts, cracking its granite flanks like a dropped wine bowl.

  He searched the mountain systematically, starting at its foot and working upward in a rough spiral. By day he took refuge in one of the deeper fissures, breathing in the glowing vapour in an attempt to replenish some of the power he’d expended. Already, his exposure to the burning stone was beginning to take its toll. He found that he needed to ingest more of the abn-i-khat to maintain his strength, which left his skin ravaged by terrible lesions and glowing traces of the mineral in his bones. The luminescence penetrated his flesh, revealing the workings of his muscles and the shrivelled knots of organs nestled in his chest, but so long as his mind remained sharp and his limbs obeyed his will, he paid the changes little mind.

  Finally, many weeks later, he found a fissure almost two-thirds up the mountain that sank crookedly into the stone for more than twenty feet, then opened into a wide, low-ceilinged cave that glowed with residue from centuries of subterranean vapours. From that moment on, the mountain was Nagash’s fortress, his sanctum from the burning sun and the meddling of feeble-minded men.

  Nagash spent months searching the tunnels that branched from the great cave, discovering a vast, tangled network of passageways that honeycombed the fractured mountain. He marked the passageways with hieroglyphs using the point of his bronze daggers, slowly building a map of the labyrinth as he made his way ever deeper into its depths. He scraped residue from the rock walls and collected the dust in the hood of his cloak, and conceived of different ways to strain the mineral from the steam that billowed from the deepest parts of the mountain, but he could not find a way to reach the deposits themselves. The tunnels would have to be extended; exploratory shafts would have to be sunk deeper into the earth, and structures built to haul the stone to the surface. He would need an army of slaves to conquer the mountain and plunder its treasures, and so the necromancer turned his attention back to the surface once more.

  It was very late, and though well past the rainy season the mountainside was wreathed in thick layers of mist. Luminous ribbons of steam caused the cooler layers of mist to writhe and dance, teasing the eye with ghostly images in the fog. Nagash paused at the lip of the fissure and listened. It was deathly silent along the slopes of the mountain and the barrow fields below. In the distance, he could hear the lapping of waves along the rocky shore of the Sour Sea.

  The necromancer clutched his tattered cloak about his chest and made his way down the slope. Power crackled along his withered veins. He’d ingested the last bits of his scavenged stone and a healthy pinch of the cave-dust as well, to ensure that he would have ample strength to complete the ritual he’d planned.

  At the foot of the mountain he paused again, his senses stretched to the utmost. For the last week he’d crept among the barrows, observing the activity of the priests while he searched for the likeliest spot to attempt his experiment. He’d learned that groups of acolytes, led by one or more senior priests, would patrol the northern edge of the wide plain for several hours each night. They rarely ventured further south, where the barrows were much older, and they hastened to return to the temple fort before the hour of the dead. He suspected that the patrols were more of a punishment for lazy acolytes than a genuine attempt to guard the barrow fields from intruders. He’d crossed paths with the patrols more than once during his explorations, and they’d never even suspected he was nearby. Nagash had listened to their nervous chatter often enough that he thought that he was beginning to understand parts of their bestial language.

  He’d decided that it was best to attempt the ritual after the patrols had returned to the temple, to minimise the risk of discovery, but that served to limit how far he could travel from his mountain lair and still make it back before dawn. Satisfied that there was no one about, Nagash headed north and west, among the newer barrow mounds.

  The barrow where the high priest had interred the hetman and his warriors was still relatively unspoiled. Streaks of mud had drained down over the stone foundations during the rainy months, and a layer of sallow, sharp-edged grass had grown atop the mound, but the wooden cover that had been placed over the entrance was still easily accessible. The cover, round as a wagon wheel and made from layers of planed wood, had been wedged into the stone frame and the cracks filled with packed earth.

  Nagash stepped into the shadow of the barrow mound’s entrance and stretched forth a gaunt, faintly glowing hand. The power flared along his limbs as he focussed his will upon the wooden cover. Words of power fell like stones from his lips as he unleashed a short, concentrated spell.

  Green light licked from the necromancer’s fingertips and played across the surface of the wood. At once, the planks blanched, crackling from within as the energies ate through the living matter. The sound of decaying wood spread, growing in volume and intensity, until the entire cover collapsed with a hollow crash. Nagash hastened through the entrance, his bare feet kicking up dry clouds of dust with every step.

  Beyond the opening was a short tunnel made of fitted stones that led into the centre of the mound. Nagash moved easily in the darkness, his eyes having long since adapted to the conditions of the deep tunnels beneath the mountain. After thirty feet or so, the tunnel gave way to the barrow proper: a dome-like chamber made of stone and packed earth that stank of mould and decay. There was nothing in the way of ornamentation on the walls, or the rotting platforms of wood and leather upon which the corpses were laid. It was a far cry from even the meanest of Nehekhara’s crypts.

  The hetman’s body lay on a platform in the centre of the mound, surrounded by the bodies of his chosen men. The damp and the ravages of beetle and worm had worked their harm upon the corpse, causing flesh and muscle to liquefy and slough away from the bone. Much of the skin covering the hetman’s skull had been chewed away, revealing part of a cheekbone and the warrior’s gap-toothed jaw.

  Nagash’s lip curled in distaste. Amateurs. He’d hoped to find the corpses in better condition. It was easier to send power twitching through muscle than to animate bare bone. Looking about, he saw that none of the other bodies were in any better condition, so with an irritated grimace he drew his dagger and bent to work.

  The damp earth made carving the ritual circle a simple task, though filling in the magical symbols was much harder to do with the necessary precision. He had to cut deeply into the dirt to chisel out the proper lines, taking far more time than he’d intended. By the time he was ready to begin, he reckoned that dawn wasn’t more than an hour away. He hadn’t even properly begun, and already the experiment had run into trouble.

  Tucking away his dagger, Nagash stepped up to the edge of the circle and raised his arms. He began with a long litany of curses, focusing his anger and his desire by calling up the names of all those, living and dead, who had wronged him and cast him out into the wasteland. Khefru. Neferem. Nebunefer. Hekhmenukep. Rakh-amn-hotep. Lamashizzar… The litany went on and on, until finally he was hissing with rage. At some point the names gave way to words of power, and the dank air crackled with the force of the necromancer’s will.

  He drew deeply of the power he’d absorbed, pouring it into the circle and the hetman’s body. “Rise,” he commanded. “Rise. Your master commands it!”

  Slowly the chamber
became suffused with a greenish glow, emanating first from Nagash, and then from the hetman’s body itself. Green light pooled within the corpse’s eye sockets. A tremor went through the rotting flesh: muscles constricted, stirring colonies of beetles and wriggling worms.

  Nagash watched in triumph as the corpse’s spine arched. One arm lolled off the side of the platform, spilling rotting flesh onto the floor. Then, slowly, as though pulled by an invisible tether, the hetman sat upright. The skull oriented on the necromancer, its bare jaw working as though trying to speak.

  “Rise!” Nagash ordered. “Come forth!”

  The corpse paused for a moment, as though uncertain of its strength, and Nagash redoubled his focus. The hetman’s body shuddered under the lash of the necromancer’s will, and haltingly swung its legs over the edge of the frame. Wood snapped beneath the shifting weight, all but tumbling the corpse to the floor. It tottered unsteadily on bare, uneven feet for a moment, but then it seemed to find its balance. Slowly, steadily, its back straightened. The corpse turned carefully on its heel to face its summoner, bale-lights flickering where its eyes had once been.

  Nagash’s lips peeled back in a ghastly, triumphant grin. Cruel laughter bubbled up from his chest. And then the hetman’s corpse raised its bony arms and lurched forward, reaching for his throat.

  He was so certain of his control over the corpse that at first he didn’t recognise his peril. It was only when the hetman’s grasping fingers were scant inches from his throat that Nagash backpedalled in shock. “Back!” he commanded with a sweep of his hand, pouring still more energy into the spell.

  But the corpse did not cease. It staggered forwards, fingers grasping, bony jaws clicking hungrily together. Snarling, Nagash tried to push the monster’s arms aside. It tottered unsteadily for a moment, but recovered with disturbing speed. With every passing moment it seemed to grow in strength and intelligence. Cursing the chaotic energies of the abn-i-khat, Nagash angrily banished the energies of the ritual.

  He expected the corpse to collapse at his feet. Instead it leapt forward, seizing Nagash by the throat. Bony digits dug deep into the necromancer’s own unliving flesh, clawing into the waxy muscle beneath. Stunned, Nagash struggled in the hetman’s grip. He stared into the bale-fires that still burned in the corpse’s eye-sockets, and suddenly realised that it was being directed by a will other than his own.

  The faint sound of chanting echoed down the dark tunnel from the barrow entrance. The priests! They hadn’t been so careless or so blind as he’d thought.

  As he struggled with the hetman, Nagash saw that the bodies of the retainers were starting to move as well. The energies of his ritual had dissipated, but he pressed his hand against the hetman’s chest and lashed out with his will. The corpse staggered slightly, but resumed the attack almost at once.

  Had he been a living man, Nagash would already have been dead. As it was, he would be surrounded within moments and torn to pieces by the rest of the hetman’s retinue.

  Rage consumed the necromancer. He, who had mastered the energies of the Black Pyramid, and once commanded armies of warriors both living and dead, laid low by a handful of corpses and a pack of bawling savages? It was unthinkable!

  With a roar, Nagash drew upon his diminished reserves of power and felt his limbs burn with unnatural strength. He seized the hetman’s right wrist with his left hand and squeezed, shattering the small bones and tearing its clenching hand free, then drew one of his bronze daggers and drove it through the corpse’s forehead. The monster staggered, but did not fall. Snarling, Nagash wrenched the knife left and right until the vertebrae snapped, then tore the corpse’s head from its shoulders. At once the body collapsed, falling apart as the sorcery that had animated it was suddenly dispelled.

  Nagash had time to draw his second knife before the hetman’s retainers closed in. There were five of the shambling creatures, their eyes burning with malice as they reached for him with claw-like hands. He slashed with his heavy blades, severing fingers and shearing through hands, but still the corpses closed in. They jabbed at him with splintered bones and snapped at him with their rotting jaws. He smashed the skull of one leering corpse, obliterating it like a rotting melon, and then shattered the knee of another. It fell at his feet, wrapping its mauled arms around his legs.

  Another arm slipped around Nagash’s throat and tightened with frightening strength, while a fourth creature fastened its jaws on his left arm. He felt himself being dragged off his feet. Snarling, he kicked at the creature holding his legs and succeeded in crushing its neck and shoulder with one savage blow. It fell back, one arm hanging uselessly at its side. Free of its grasp, Nagash twisted at the waist and drove his dagger into the throat of the creature whose teeth were savaging his side. Rotten flesh parted like damp cloth; he twisted his wrist and the monster’s head came loose with a wet, popping sound.

  The last of the corpses crashed into him, hands pressing on his chest. Nagash fell backwards, slashing wildly with his blade as he fell. He landed on his back, and the creatures fell atop him, pinning him down and tearing at him with their jaws. The necromancer writhed and kicked. Teeth sank into his cheek, tearing at the waxy flesh. Nagash brought up his left-hand blade, driving it so deeply into one corpse’s ribcage that it became hopelessly entangled. Enraged, he let go of the dagger’s hilt and drove his hand deeper, past the shrivelled organs and leathery muscles until his fingers closed around the creature’s spine. He squeezed, crushing the vertebrae, and then shoved the crippled monster aside. Moments later, the last corpse collapsed with its skull crushed beneath the pommel of his dagger.

  Growling like a beast, Nagash kicked himself free of the corpses and staggered back to his feet. Grisly wounds had been gnawed into his face, chest and arm, but he felt no pain. His flesh burned and his bones shook. Smoke curled from the ragged ends of skin hanging from his cheek.

  He burst from the barrow mound with a Nehekharan war cry on his lips, his eyes blazing with wrath. Half a dozen priests were waiting outside, standing in a semi-circle and chanting, their arms raised to the sky. Perhaps a dozen acolytes attended upon them, holding aloft lantern-globes that were already half-dead from the strain of the priests’ incantation.

  Nagash flung out his hand and spat words of power. Arcs of green fire burst from his fingertips, spearing half of the priests. They fell screaming, their skin blackening as they burned from the inside out. Lantern poles toppled as the acolytes fled in panic, the globes bursting as they hit the ground.

  The rest of the priests recoiled in shock and horror. He waited for them to strike back, unleashing searing blasts of their own, but no such counter-strike came. Nagash advanced on them, dagger poised. He slashed out with the blade, and one of the savages toppled with his throat slashed open. The last two turned to flee, wailing and babbling imprecations to the heavens. Nagash leapt upon them, hacking and stabbing until both lay silent and broken at his feet.

  Nagash staggered, bloody and torn, chest heaving with exertion. His power was all but spent, his flesh savaged by combat and the fire of the abn-i-khat. He could still hear the screams of the acolytes, fading in the distance off to the north-west. Nagash threw back his head and howled after them. I’m coming, he thought savagely. There’s nowhere you can run in this forsaken place that’s safe from me!

  Muscles quivering, he turned, heading back for the safety of the mountain—and saw that he was not alone. A single acolyte stood watching him, eyes wide and jaw agape with fear. He was young, scarcely old enough to be a man, and he clutched his lantern-pole with a white-knuckled grip.

  When Nagash’s merciless gaze fell upon him, the acolyte sank slowly to his knees and bowed low. The necromancer studied him for several moments, debating on what to do. Finally he simply nodded silently and walked away. Truth be told, he wasn’t certain he had enough strength left to kill the young man and still make it back to the foot of the mountain.

  Power. It all came down to power. He’d thought he’d had enough, and nea
rly paid for that mistake with his life. As he lurched across the lifeless plain towards the distant mountain, with dawn less than half an hour away, Nagash vowed that he would not make the same mistake again.

  SEVEN

  The Right of Queens

  Lahmia, The City of the Dawn, in the 76th year of Djaf the Terrible

  (-1599 Imperial Reckoning)

  “Please, great one. Try one of these.” Tephret reached for a golden bowl with one ancient, palsied hand and tried to fish out a few candied dates. “You’ll waste away if you don’t eat something.”

  A light supper had been laid out for the queen at the edge of the small pond that served as the centrepiece of the palace garden. Neferata leaned against the bole of a small ornamental tree, surrounded by a constellation of golden dishes laden with uneaten sweetmeats and Eastern delicacies. It was late spring, the rainy season, but the night was surprisingly clear. Neru shone high in the sky, and drops of rain from the evening’s rainstorm glittered like diamonds on the blooming garden flowers. The night air was warm and heady with their perfume. Large fish swam in lazy circles just beneath the surface of the water, their opalescent scales glimmering ghostly white beneath the moonlight. If she listened very closely she could hear the whisper of the currents they stirred in their wake.

  Neferata stilled Tephret’s hand with a gentle touch and a warm smile. They were alone in the great garden, she’d sent her other handmaidens away as soon as the dinner had been laid out.

  “These foreign foods have lost their savour, I’m afraid,” she said to Tephret. The woman’s skin was soft and wrinkled beneath the queen’s fingertips. At a hundred and sixty-five years of age, her most favoured handmaiden was nearing the end of a long and faithful life. The queen had watched her grow from a nervous slip of a girl into a grey-haired old woman, and in all that time, Tephret’s devotion hadn’t wavered.