ELEVEN
Necessary Sacrifices
Lahmia, The City of the Dawn, in the 76th year of Khsar the Faceless
(-1598 Imperial Reckoning)
Ubaid bowed his tattooed head at the queen’s approach. “All is in readiness, great one,” he said, as though he were speaking of nothing more untoward than a palace feast.
Neferata acknowledged the vizier with a nod. It was fast approaching midnight; the audience with Xia Ha Feng had lasted much longer than she’d expected, but it had been important not to appear rude and hasten away too early. She needed the august personage to be receptive to her overtures, to believe that he could win her confidence and thus gain a lever to use against the king. So long as he believed that he had power over her, she was free to lay the trap that would ultimately ensnare him—and possibly the whole Eastern Empire as well.
A thin line of warm light shone beneath the door to the sanctum. Ubaid had been busy for hours, preparing for the ritual. The grand vizier was the only member of the cabal that she permitted into the chamber; the rest were now required to pay their respects and receive their draught of elixir in the funereal confines of the Hall of Regretful Sorrows. She’d chosen the location for the express reason that it was the least used of the queen’s three audience chambers—and also because she wanted Lamashizzar and his former allies to never forget that she alone now stood between them and the realm of the dead.
Lamashizzar, of course, was furious at the thought. She knew that it was dangerous to provoke him in such petty ways; he lacked ambition, but he could be ruthless when his pride was offended. Perhaps, in time, she would release him from the obligation, but right now he needed to kneel before her and acknowledge her authority. He needed to be humbled. He needed to know what it was like to live at the whim of another. It was the one concession to her feelings that she allowed herself to make.
For the most part, she had been careful not to abuse her power. For all their reputation for decadence, in some ways the people of Lahmia were just as hidebound as other Nehekharans. None outside the palace knew that she no longer confined herself to the Women’s Palace, and none other than the members of the cabal knew that the city was ruled by anyone other than its king.
Neferata intended it to remain that way. Nagash might have believed that he could rule as an Undying King in Khemri without tempting the wrath of the other great cities, but she knew better. Now that she had access to her children once more, she had plans to ensure that, to all outward purposes, the ruling dynasty would continue as before. When her son Lamasu reached marriageable age, she would find him a proper wife, and then it would be time for Lamashizzar to join his ancestors in the afterlife. Naturally she, as the dutiful wife, would appear to drink from the poisoned cup and join him in his journey to the underworld, and to all intents and purposes she would be dead and gone.
The trick would be to convince the other members of the cabal to engineer their own deaths as well. Already their long lives—and miraculous vitality—were giving rise to unwelcome rumours both at court and even as far away as neighbouring Lybaras. According to Lamashizzar’s spies, Queen Khalida had hinted at suspicions of her own on more than one occasion, though she’d never come out and publicly accused her royal cousins of any unnatural dealings.
Neferata had tried to reach out to Khalida on more than one occasion, hoping to use their past friendship to build strong ties between the two cities, but so far the Lybaran queen had found compelling reasons not to accept any of her cousin’s invitations to court.
At some point she would also have to decide what to do about Arkhan. For now, his knowledge of Nagash’s sorcery still outweighed the risk of keeping him alive, but that balance was shifting fast. She was starting to grasp the finer nuances of the Usurper’s incantations. Soon she would allow W’soran to begin studying the more esoteric aspects of Nagash’s necromantic lore, using it to both control him and expand her own base of knowledge through his studies. Once that was underway, Arkhan would only be useful for his sword arm and his ability to procure victims for the cabal, two functions that she was certain Abhorash and Ushoran could perform just as well. It had been pathetically easy to win over the monster’s loyalty, though it had required her to open herself to Arkhan far more than she would have liked. Neferata was already looking forward to the day that she could order Abhorash to put an end to the whole tiresome business.
The queen pushed open the sanctum door and hastened within, mindful of the sands hissing through the hourglass. Ubaid had laid out the ritual implements and lit the incense in preparation for the incantation. The sacrifice had likewise been prepared and awaited her in the centre of the circle. His wounds had been cleaned and he’d been given a potion that would banish his fatigue and leave him awake and alert for the ceremony to come.
He was part of an experiment that Neferata was conducting in an attempt to better refine the outcome of Nagash’s ritual. Arkhan had found him amid the squalid refugee districts west of the city: a young man, relatively fit and healthy enough to survive a full week of suffering. The subject was chained to an iron ring that had been set in the ceiling at the centre of the ritual circle, and the dark stone around his toes was layered with thick spatters of blood. The incisions that covered his body in precise, intricate patterns had been inflicted according to the diagrams provided in Nagash’s tomes, and represented the culmination of the torturer’s art. The wounds left every nerve in the victim’s body throbbing and raw, but the injuries themselves were not serious enough to kill.
According to the necromancer’s experiments, no victim had survived the nightmare of constant pain for more than eight days. By Neferata’s estimation, at seven days the victim’s energies would be at their peak; past that point they would start to ebb as the body began to fail.
Now would come the true test. Neferata crossed to the worktable at the edge of the circle. The razor-edged torture knives had been scrupulously cleaned and set aside on a clean linen cloth. In their place, Ubaid had set out the curved sacrificial blade, the golden bowl and the jewel-encrusted goblet that she used to drink the first draught of the elixir. The heavy tome containing the great ritual lay open to the proper page at the table’s edge, but she hardly spared it a glance. She’d learned the necessary phrases and gestures by heart a long time ago.
Neferata breathed deeply, drinking in the delicate incense that permeated the room. She reached down and touched the blade of the sacrificial knife; the sharpened bronze was cold to the touch. The queen smiled, tracing a fingertip along the narrow, wooden hilt, then picked it up. It felt light and comfortable in her hand.
She entered the circle with care, and sought the young man’s eyes. His gaze was fixed upon her, both terrified and hopeful all at once. A faint groan escaped his lacerated lips.
The queen held him with her gaze. Arkhan had taught her to draw upon the power inherent in the elixir. She used it now, and watched a spark of longing catch fire in his eyes. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and from the expression that crossed his tortured face, she knew that the agony wracking his body had been transformed into something far sharper, far sweeter and much more agonising than anything he’d felt before. How she had made him suffer in the last few days of his life. And yet he loved her, with all his heart and soul. He ached for her, through and through.
Smiling, Neferata placed the knife in her belt, and drew so close to him that she could feel his laboured breathing against her cheek. She stretched, almost languidly, reaching up to undo the chains that held his wrists. He staggered as the bonds were released, yet he did not fall. Her gaze held him upright.
Her smile broadened. “You have pleased me,” she told him, and the words sent shudders through his frame. “Now there is one last thing you must do, and then, my sweet, you will be with me forever.” She drew out the knife. “Will you do this for me?”
His mouth worked. Broken sounds issued forth, until tears of frustration gleamed at the corners of his eyes. Fina
lly, he managed a shaky nod.
“I knew you wouldn’t fail me,” she said softly. “Take this,” she said, and held out the knife.
The young man reached out a trembling hand and grasped the gleaming blade. “Good,” Neferata whispered. “Wait here.”
She retreated to the edge of the circle. The hour had come. Ubaid appeared at her side, silent and ready.
Neferata raised her hands. Her eyes had never left her victim’s. “Now,” she told him. “Repeat after me.”
And so she began to chant, slowly and purposefully, and the man in the centre of the circle joined in. She drew him into the ritual, weaving his pain and passion into the incantation, and he surrendered himself to it willingly, eagerly. At that moment, he wanted to give her everything her heart desired.
The incantation built slowly and steadily. Minutes passed into hours, until time lost all meaning. The climax, when it came, took both of them by surprise.
“Now!” she gasped. “The knife!” Neferata raised a trembling finger to her throat, right over the pulsing artery. “Give me your heart’s blood!”
A beatific smile crossed the young man’s scarred face. He brought the knife to his throat and sliced it open with a single, graceful motion. Ubaid was beside him at once, the golden bowl held in his upraised hands.
The man stood there, bleeding his life away, his face transported in ecstasy. She held him with her gaze until his heart ceased to beat, and his lifeless body collapsed to the stone floor.
Neferata let out a long, shuddering breath. Her nerves were afire. She reached for the golden goblet as Ubaid rose from the victim’s corpse and brought her the brimming, steaming bowl.
Slowly, carefully, the grand vizier poured a measure of blood into the gleaming cup. Neferata inhaled the heady scent. It was sweeter than any fragrance she’d ever smelled before.
Suddenly, there came a sound in the corridor outside the sanctum. It sounded to Neferata like the scuff of sandal leather across stone. Ubaid frowned, and carefully set the sacrificial bowl upon the floor. The dagger he drew from his belt was anything but light and utilitarian. He circled around the bowl and moved quietly towards the closed door.
Neferata turned to watch him go. Something was wrong. She thought of Lamashizzar, and felt a sudden sense of foreboding.
The goblet was warm in her hands. She stared down at the still surface of the elixir, sensing the power seething in its depths. Neferata raised the cup to her lips and drank deep. The taste was painfully bitter, yet it filled her with a power the likes of which she had never known before.
Ubaid was struggling with someone at the door. Was it Lamashizzar? She could not tell, and at that moment, she did not care. Neferata let out a throaty chuckle. “Stand aside,” she said to Ubaid. “Let him pass.” Whoever it was, he would bow at her feet and beg her forgiveness for the unwelcome intrusion.
The grand vizier retreated from the doorway, and a lone figure staggered into the room. It took her a moment to recognise who it was.
“Arkhan?” she asked. She could smell the stink of blood on his robes. “What is the meaning of this?”
The immortal lurched towards her. As he stepped further into the light, she could see the bloody stubs of arrow shafts jutting from his shoulder and side. His ghastly face was paler than usual, and the iron sword she’d given him was held in his hand. Its edge was dark with dried blood.
“The king is moving against you,” Arkhan croaked. He sounded as though he was at the very limits of his strength. “Lamashizzar sent Adio and Khenti to murder me on the trade road. He means to kill you as well.”
Neferata shook her head. Arkhan wasn’t making sense. She laughed softly, drunk with sudden power—and then a cold spike of pain lanced through her heart.
The queen had time for a single, startled gasp before the poison took hold and dragged her down into darkness.
* * *
Arkhan watched in horror as Neferata collapsed. The golden goblet tumbled from her hand, spilling the last, thick dregs of elixir at her feet. He lurched towards her, his body stiff and clumsy from his wounds. “Help me!” he snarled at the grand vizier as he collapsed to his knees beside the queen.
“There is nothing to be done,” Ubaid replied in a dead voice.
Neferata lay upon her side, head resting on one out-flung arm. Her skin was cold to the touch. Arkhan rested his fingertips against her slender throat, but could not feel the pulse of her heart. He brought his cheek close to her lips. There was barely a whisper of breath.
The immortal’s gaze went to the dented goblet. There were scarlet drops of elixir beading its rim. As he watched, they turned dull red, then black. Realisation sank into him like a knife. It was one thing to murder a man on the trade road and leave his body in the ditch; killing a queen was something altogether more risky. Her body would be handled by the priests of the mortuary cult, and viewed by thousands of grieving citizens. Her death would have to appear natural.
“This cannot be,” Arkhan snarled. “No poison in all Nehekhara could overcome Nagash’s elixir.”
“It is the venom of the sphinx, a poison both natural and supernatural,” Ubaid said. “Even before the fall of Mahrak it was vanishingly rare. The gods alone know how Lamashizzar obtained it.” The grand vizier approached the queen. His expression was inscrutable as he studied Neferata’s still form. “According to the old texts, the venom attacks the blood, rendering it lifeless. Death is instantaneous.” He shook his head. “It’s a wonder that the queen is alive at all.”
Something in Ubaid’s dispassionate voice kindled a black rage in Arkhan’s heart. He surged to his feet, seizing the grand vizier by the throat. The immortal could feel the last vestiges of elixir boiling in his veins. Dimly, he was aware that Ubaid still held a knife in his hand, but the immortal scarcely cared. The point of his own sword was scant inches from Ubaid’s belly.
“Why?” Arkhan growled.
The grand vizier glowered at the immortal, but his expression was bleak. “Because, like Abhorash, I serve the throne,” he replied. “Lamashizzar is weak and feckless, but Lahmia has survived such rulers before.” Ubaid squirmed a little in Arkhan’s grasp. His voice rose in frustration. “The queen did not keep her word. Instead of advising the king, she usurped his power entirely. It’s not right—”
Arkhan’s hand tightened around Ubaid’s throat. “She thinks only of this city! Lahmia will prosper under her rule! And for this, you betray her?”
Ubaid’s eyes widened in anger. “Who are you to judge me?” he hissed. “Arkhan the Black, who betrayed his own king in favour of the Usurper, then even turned upon Nagash when it suited your purposes. What do you know of loyalty, or devotion?” He spread his arms. “Kill me, if you wish, but you may not presume to pass judgement on me.”
Arkhan’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. His mind whirled. Snarling in disgust, he turned and shoved the grand vizier towards the door. Ubaid staggered a dozen paces, an uncomprehending look on his face.
“I will leave it up to the queen to decide your fate,” Arkhan said coldly. “Now go.”
Ubaid shook his head. The snake tattoo on his neck seemed to slither in the shifting light. “Don’t you understand? The queen will never wake. The elixir’s power may slow the venom for a time, but it’s just a matter of hours now. Days at the most.”
“I said get out!” Arkhan roared, and took a step towards Ubaid. The grand vizier saw the murderous look in the immortal’s eyes, and his nerve finally deserted him. Tucking his knife back into his belt, he fled the room with as much dignity as he could muster.
Arkhan listened to the grand vizier’s footsteps retreat down the corridor. He swayed on his feet. I must be out of my mind, he thought. How did I let Neferata do this to me?
He spun on his heel, surveying the chamber. Ubaid would go back to the king and report what had happened, and the king would swoop in like a hawk to seize the queen’s body and reclaim Nagash’s tomes. There was no time to waste.
With a trembling hand, Arkhan slid his iron blade back into its scabbard, and limped over to the golden bowl. The immortal knelt, placed his hands against the bowl’s curved surface, and raised it to his lips. The liquid inside was still warm and fragrant.
He drank it all; it was far more than he needed, filling his innards to bursting, but he was careful not to waste a single drop. Stolen vigour seethed through his veins. The power of the elixir staggered him; it was nearly as powerful as Nagash’s own, and far sweeter. Grinning mirthlessly, he plucked the remaining arrow stubs from his torso and cast them aside.
The immortal searched through the room until he found a large, linen sack, then filled it with a half-dozen carefully selected tomes. If the elixir was potent enough to resist the effects of the sphinx’s poison, then perhaps there was a chance to defeat it entirely. First, however, he needed a place where he could work in relative safety. At the moment, only one option seemed open to him.
Arkhan knelt carefully and took the queen in his arms. Her body was already stiffening, as though in death, and felt as light and brittle as old paper. Once again, the immortal was struck by the sheer folly of what he was doing. He ought to be fleeing the city with as many of Nagash’s books as he could carry. Once on the Golden Plain he could escape Lamashizzar’s wrath with ease.
The immortal looked down at the queen’s unconscious form and was reminded once again of Neferem, another daughter of Lahmia who was a pawn of kings and suffered for centuries while he stood by and watched.
Neferata didn’t have to set you free, he reminded himself.
Cursing under his breath, Arkhan carried the queen from the room. With luck, he could make it to the Women’s Palace before the king realised that she still lived.
It appeared that King Lamashizzar hadn’t entertained the possibility that his wife might survive the poisoned cup. There were no palace guards roaming the corridors as Arkhan hastened to the southern edge of the palace. Just to be safe, he crossed into the Women’s Palace via the rarely used Hall of Regretful Sorrows. The immortal fought down a sense of grim foreboding as he bore the queen’s body past the great marble bier where the queens of Lahmia had been laid in state for millennia.
[Nagash 02] - Nagash the Unbroken Page 17
