Cut off from reinforcements, his advancing troops were eventually stopped at mine shaft eight and destroyed over the course of several days by repeated enemy counter-attacks. The loss in resources had been staggering, so much so that when the enemy struck back the following week, the ratmen quickly regained mine shafts five and six, leaving Nagash in even worse shape than before.
Furious, he had lashed out at the enemy with a campaign of sorcerous attacks over the next few years, searching for the perfect weapon that would finally drive them from the mountain, but the damned rat-creatures adapted swiftly to every new tactic he employed, from poison vapours to blood-boiling plagues. The ratmen suffered terribly, and occasionally one of the upper mine shafts would temporarily fall to his warriors, but every time his forces lacked the strength to consolidate his gains, and in short order they were lost once again. And all the while, his supply of the precious abn-i-khat was dwindling away. Where once he’d thought himself secure for millennia thanks to the riches of the great mountain, now he was forced to hoard each and every particle of the glowing rock, spending it only when he must.
Nagash had grown so attuned to the ebb and flow of the sorcerous power in his bones that he could feel it trickling away while he directed the actions of the tomb beetles. Such exacting focus was necessary, because more than ever his existence depended on ingesting the stone. After so many centuries, his leathery flesh was all but gone, consumed by the rigours of time and the strain of countless sorcerous rituals. His bones, permeated by layers of stone dust, were held together now by pure sorcery and the necromancer’s implacable will. At first, the amount of power required was negligible, but it had grown fractionally with each passing year.
Nagash directed the movement of his right arm once more, reaching into the depths of his left-hand sleeve. He found what he sought by virtue of the power it exuded against the bones of his fingers. Grasping the pieces of abn-i-khat, he drew them free and raised them to his hooded face. The faded sleeve fell away to reveal the bones of hand and forearm, blackened with age and centuries of arcane ritual. A faint green aura flickered about the outlines of his bones and glowed sullenly in the narrow joints.
There were two pieces of stone resting in his skeletal palm, shaped into thin discs like Nehekharan coins so that they lay flat against the bones. Angrily, Nagash closed his fingers about the stones and mentally intoned a swift incantation. There was a hissing sound as the abn-i-khat dissolved, its power leaching into his bones.
Faint impurities curled from the gaps between his finger bones in thin wisps of smoke. Sorcerous energy flowed through him like molten metal, but its potency dissipated all too quickly. It flowed through him and was drawn away almost at once by the demands of his army, like water poured onto the desert sands.
Across the tunnel, Nagash saw Diarid force his way out of the press of barbarians. Though sorely wounded himself, the champion dragged the limp form of his master, Bragadh, behind him. From the necromancer’s left, Akatha’s war-song faltered as the witch caught sight of the wounded chieftain. Without asking for Nagash’s leave, she pushed through the circle of the necromancer’s bodyguard and rushed to Bragadh’s side. For a moment, Nagash thought to force her to return to her place, but his resources were stretched too thin as it was to risk a battle of wills with the barbarian witch.
Nagash’s hooded head shifted fractionally, focussing on Thestus. Without lungs to draw air, or flesh to shape words, he used still more of his precious energy to impose his will on the barbarian. Rally the northmen, he commanded. Restore the line.
Thestus recoiled at the lash of the necromancer’s will. “But… what of the reserves?” he stammered. “We must commit the spear companies, master! The men are exhausted; they cannot continue much longer—”
Obey, Thestus!
The barbarian cried out at the fury in Nagash’s unspoken command. Black ichor welled up at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He staggered backwards, pressing a hand to his face, then turned away and stumbled towards the still-struggling barbarians.
Beyond the battle-line, the enemy’s foothold in mine shaft four was shrinking fast. The maddened ratmen proved their own worst enemy against the armoured scarabs, hurling themselves into the path of their snapping mandibles or slicing themselves to pieces against the scarabs’ carapaces. The gore-streaked constructs scuttled nimbly over heaps of ravaged corpses, driving ever deeper into the enemy ranks.
Nagash poured his rage into his sorcerous engines, doubling, then tripling their speed and strength. Still more wild-eyed ratmen poured from the branch-tunnels and hurled themselves fearlessly into the path of the scarabs, only to be cut down in turn by the buzzing, snapping war engines. The enemy assault had been stopped in its tracks, and for the first time in years, was being driven back upon itself.
The necromancer relished the sight of the slaughter. He drove the scarabs onwards, pushing for the branch-tunnels, eager to drive the knife deeper into the enemy’s line. There was no way to tell what lay behind the hordes of drugged ratmen; could there be a flaw in the enemy line that he could exploit? If he could push even as far as mine shaft five and hold it for a day or so, he might be able to seize enough raw stone to turn the counter-attack into a general offensive. After five years of punishing retreats, the urge to strike back was almost unbearable.
Thestus’ dreadful voice rose above the tumult, shouting orders to the exhausted northmen. The companies ordered their ranks and slowly pushed forwards over the heaped bodies of the ratmen. The constructs had nearly reached the mouths of the branch-tunnels; they had been designed with the cramped confines of the passageways in mind and would be at an even greater advantage over the enemy.
Nagash considered the waiting ranks of skeletons before him. He had five hundred spearmen immediately at hand, plus his fearsome wights. They could pass through the barbarian lines and push into the tunnels behind the scarabs. If they cut deeply enough, quickly enough, they might be able to cut off a large part of the enemy’s troops…
Just then, the necromancer caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. A bloodied barbarian warrior had come running out of one of the branch-tunnels and was gasping out a report to Akatha and Diarid. The witch rose from beside Bragadh’s unconscious form and reluctantly returned to Nagash’s side. Her expression was grim.
“There is news from the interior,” she said, referring to the end of the defensive line anchored at the deepest part of the mine shaft. “The ratmen have tunnelled around our warriors and emerged behind them. Our forces there have been thrown into confusion.”
Nagash rounded on the witch, his skeleton warping unnaturally with the sudden movement before reasserting itself. Rally them, he seethed. The line must hold!
Akatha groaned at the savage pressure inside her skull, but the witch did not falter. “Bragadh himself might have been able to turn the tide, but now…” she shrugged. “His wounds are deep. He requires a fresh infusion of your elixir before he can fight again.”
There is none to give! Nagash raged. Thestus will go in Bragadh’s place. The companies will follow him, or I will slay them myself!
Akatha did not reply. Her cold stare was answer enough. Of all his servants, she understood best how precarious their situation had become.
Nagash turned back to the fight at the far side of the tunnel. The advantage he’d seen there had been an illusion; the bloody assault had been but a diversion to distract him from the enemy’s flanking attack. He had been outmanoeuvred again.
A stream of deadly curses stained the aether. Once again, his position had become untenable. He could continue to fight, and possibly even repulse the new attack, but the cost in troops would be great. Caught between two axes of attack, it was even possible that the barbarians would collapse under the strain, and he might find himself cut off from the surface.
The enemy war leader was cautious and cunning, Nagash had to admit. His slow and steady advance was crushing the necromancer’s troops, like the suffoc
ating coils of a river python. The more he fought, the weaker he inevitably became. The only viable tactic left to him was to avoid battle as much as possible, but even that played into the enemy’s hands.
Somehow, the enemy understood that the burning stone was the key to victory. Every day brought his forces closer to defeat, as the store of abn-i-khat dwindled. Before much longer, he would need to hoard the last remaining bits of stone not to fight, but to stave off his own extinction.
Trembling with fury, Nagash brought the bone scarabs to a halt at the edge of the branch-tunnels. He had to conserve his strength, to wait for his enemy to make a mistake. Then he would strike and he would not stop until he held the enemy war leader’s beating heart in his hands.
Until then, he had no choice but to retreat.
—
Meditations on Life and Death
Lahmia, the City of the Dawn, in the 99th year of Ualatp the Patient
(-1290 Imperial Reckoning)
Lightning split the sky over Lahmia, burning white-hot against a backdrop of roiling black cloud. For a fraction of an instant the garden clearing was thrown into stark relief; each stunted, thrashing branch, each bent blade of grass, each frantic ripple across the wide, dark pond—then darkness rushed in and thunder beat at the back of Alcadizzar’s head and shoulders. Rain lashed at his naked body, coursing down his forehead and into his eyes. After the heat of the day, the cold water wracked him with painful spasms in his arms and legs. It was all he could do to remain upright, focussing on the fading heat in his veins and drawing what little strength he could from it.
This is the day I die.
The thought echoed over and over in his mind. For seven days and seven nights he had been left alone in the garden to purify his mind and body and prepare for the ordeal to come. The high priestesses had stripped him of his robes and left him with neither food nor water; if he were worthy, the gifts of the goddess would be enough to sustain him.
This is the day I die.
Surprisingly, he’d felt no hunger. No thirst. After the first few nights, he’d felt no fatigue, either. The sun burned his skin by day, until he welcomed the thunderstorms that blew in from the sea at evening; then darkness would fall and the night air would chill him to the bone. The passage of time had become disjointed as he’d withdrawn deeper and deeper into his own mind. Meditate, the high priestesses had told him. When one had been cleansed of all worldly cares, only the goddess remained. That was the path to salvation.
And so he’d looked inwards, seeking the goddess. For the first time, he tried to put aside his dreams and ambitions, to stifle his hunger for a life outside the walls of palace or temple, but he found that he could not. The fact was that he didn’t want to. He didn’t want the gifts of the goddess. He wanted Khemri. He wanted to stride the world as a king and a conqueror, not spend his days pondering the mysteries of some esoteric cult. During the long years of study he’d tried to convince himself otherwise, that he could balance the duties of a hierophant with the drives of a monarch, but after the fourth day in the garden he could no longer deny the truth. Alcadizzar was no priest, and never would be.
The realisation had been a painful one. He could not turn aside now, not after pledging himself to the temple. He refused to forswear himself, even to save his own life. All that remained now was to endure as long as he could, and then go to the lands of the dead with his honour still intact.
This is the day I die, he thought calmly. Lightning flashed and the rain poured down, and he waited for the moment to come.
After a time, the storm’s fury abated. Night drew on, with a bright, full moon rising above the sea to the east. The frogs began to sing from the depths of the garden and the cicadas murmured in the trees. Bats whirled high overhead, their darting shapes silhouetted against the starlight.
He was not aware of the high priestesses until they had emerged from the trees surrounding the clearing. Their golden masks shone like lamps beneath the moon, and their samite robes seemed to float about their bodies as they walked bare-footed across the damp grass. Alcadizzar smiled at the sight of them after so many days with nothing but his thoughts for company. Silently they glided up to the prince, forming a wide circle around him. Their eyes were flat and pitiless.
The prince straightened his back and turned his head up to the sky. He breathed deeply, tasting the night air. Salt and stone, green grass and murky water; these were the smells he would take with him into the afterlife.
Between one breath and the next, he felt her enter the clearing. He could feel her presence like a weight upon his soul. The pressure increased with every step she took, causing his pulse to quicken and a chill to race down his spine. He couldn’t say how long she had affected him so; the connection he felt had grown slowly over the years, bound ever more tightly together with each ritual sharing of the goddess’ cup. Until recently, he’d thought the bond was a measure of his devotion to the cult; now he wasn’t sure what to believe.
The high priestesses seemed to share Alcadizzar’s connection; they bowed their heads in unison as she approached the circle and two of the masked women stood aside to allow her to pass inside.
She glided silently across the grass to stand before Alcadizzar. From his perspective, she seemed to tower above him, like one of the lost gods. She wore a fitted golden breastplate engraved with twining asps, over a robe of white samite bordered at the hem and sleeves with bands of gold thread. A necklace of fiery rubies encircled her pale throat, glinting like fresh drops of blood. Her gold mask seemed to glow against the backdrop of her lustrous black hair. A broad-rimmed goblet was clasped reverently against her chest. Two high priestesses followed in her wake; one bore a second goblet in her hands, while the other held a heavy leather scourge.
For a moment she said nothing. He could feel her gaze against his skin like a caress. Gooseflesh ran along his arms and down the back of his neck. Alcadizzar gritted his teeth and tried to suppress a shudder.
Finally, she spoke. “Prince Alcadizzar of Rasetra, you have spent seven days and seven nights in solitary vigil, purifying your mind and body of worldly desires. We have gathered here to elevate you to the temple’s highest rank, but first you must demonstrate your devotion and piety in a trial of suffering. Do you understand?”
Alcadizzar nodded gravely. “I do, holy one,” he replied, his voice roughened by disuse.
“You will be tested unto destruction, oh prince,” she said. Her voice was cold, but her dark eyes smouldered with suppressed emotion. “It is the only way. If your heart and mind are pure, the blood of the goddess will sustain you.”
“I know,” he said. Alcadizzar summoned his resolve, determined to accept his fate with dignity. “Let it be done.”
“Then rise, oh prince, and drink from the cup of the goddess.”
Alcadizzar took a deep breath and forced his cramped limbs to work. Slowly, carefully, he rose to his feet. Fiery pain blossomed from his shoulders all the way to his toes, but he forced the sensations into the back of his mind. Solemnly, he took the proffered cup and raised it to his lips. The metal rim was warm and the dark liquid soft. Asaph’s Kiss, he’d heard it called by some of the priestesses. He drank, and this time the ritual offering was far more potent than he’d tasted before. Its heat spread through his body in an instant, taking away his pain and filling him with strength. His mind reeled, borne on a sudden wave of euphoria that seemed to emanate, not from the cup, but from her. She took the cup from his hands and he knew that she was smiling behind the curve of her mask.
“Do not be afraid,” she said softly—or perhaps she had merely thought it. He could not say for certain anymore.
She withdrew from him then, and he felt it like an ache in his heart. It took all of Alcadizzar’s concentration not to try and follow her. Instead, he focussed on the high priestess who stepped up to take her place. Without a word, she offered him the second cup.
“Drink,” the priestess said in a husky voice.
> He took the cup without fear and drained it in a single draught. The wine was sweet and spiced with a multitude of herbs, but not enough to hide the bitter taste of the poison within.
When he handed back the goblet, he met the masked priestess’ eyes and was surprised to find that they were brimming with tears. Without thinking, he tried to give her a reassuring smile. She bowed her head and returned to her mistress’ side. As she did so, the rest of the circle began a low, almost mournful chant.
The die was cast. Alcadizzar was surprised at how calm he felt. It might have been the effects of the elixir, but the prince wanted to think otherwise. Once more, he turned his face to the sky.
Forgive me father, he thought, and offered himself up for judgement.
The pain came on quickly. It began as a terrible burning in his guts that grew more intense with every passing moment, as though he were swallowing one hot coal after another. He clenched his jaw and kept silent for what felt like an eternity, thinking that eventually the agony would subside, but no such relief came. His body began to tremble uncontrollably and a strangled scream forced its way past his lips.
Moments later he was lying on the wet grass, his naked form curled into a foetal ball as the poison worked its way through his body. The muscles of his torso first began to ache, then, like the tightening of ropes, they began to contract and stiffen. The suffering spread through his limbs, then up his neck and along the muscles of his face. His screams became agonised gasps, whistling through clenched teeth as an invisible fist closed about his chest. Every beat of his heart was like a red-hot dagger driving into his ribs. Darkness began to crowd the edges of his vision, until he was certain that he was going to pass out, but somehow the promise of oblivion never came.
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