03 - Nagash Immortal

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  Blade-like legs rattling against the stone, the construct lifted its bulbous abdomen from the hole. Like the rest of the body, it was formed from large, curving bones instead of flesh. The cold glow of sorcerous runes revealed a dark, huddled shape trapped inside.

  Eshreegar stiffened. “That’s a skaven,” he hissed.

  “Are you sure?” Eekrit squinted. He couldn’t tell much at this distance.

  “He’s right,” Shireep confirmed. “I can see a tail.”

  “Slave or clan warrior?” Eekrit asked.

  Eshreegar shook his head. “Neither. He’s wearing armour and decent robes. Probably a pack leader of some kind.”

  Down by the hole, the units of undead guards moved aside to let the construct pass. It scuttled forwards with surprising speed, bearing its prize down a wide lane across the chamber and into the heart of the fortress. Within moments, it was lost from view.

  “I thought the kreekar-gan didn’t take prisoners,” Shireep said, his voice heavy with dread.

  “He does now,” Eshreegar said grimly. “The question is why.”

  Eekrit studied the scene, putting the pieces together. “Information,” he said at length. “What else?” He pointed to the hole. “That’s a murder hole, just like the ones we used to dig in the lower levels. It probably comes out somewhere between mine shafts one and four, otherwise we would have discovered it by now.”

  The Master of Treacheries shook his head. “They couldn’t have dug that deeply that fast,” he said. “We searched this cavern just a few months ago and none of this was here.”

  “Yes, it was,” Eekrit replied. “It must have been. They just covered the hole with that slab and buried it under debris so we wouldn’t find it.”

  Shireep’s eyes widened. “That means they dug the tunnel long before we’d taken the upper mine shafts.”

  Eshreegar gave Eekrit a troubled look. “So the burning man expected us to capture the upper levels.”

  “Or he allowed us to,” the warlord replied. Suddenly, the enemy’s swift retreat made sense. “Too easy. I knew it was too easy.” He turned to the Master of Treacheries. “How fast can we get back to mine shaft four?”

  “From here? Four or five hours, if we’re lucky,” Eshreegar replied. “A single messenger could make the trip faster—”

  “There’s no guarantee a message will reach the Grey Lord,” Eekrit replied. “He’ll take an audience from me, though. At least, I hope so.”

  Shireep looked from Eekrit to Eshreegar and back again. “I don’t understand. What’s happening?” the young scout asked.

  Eekrit paused, staring at Shireep. He reflected that this was probably as good a time as any to cut the skaven’s throat. One quick signal to Eshreegar, and Shireep would be dead before he knew what hit him.

  The warlord started to raise his paw, but abruptly reconsidered. He could sort out Shireep later. If his suspicions were right, they were all going to be fighting for their lives in the next few hours, and he was going to need every able paw he could get.

  He beckoned to the two scout-assassins to follow him. “We’ve got to get back to Velsquee,” he told Shireep. “The kreekar-gan’s laid a trap for the entire army and the Grey Lord’s marched right into the middle of it.”

  * * *

  The rat-thing shrieked and squirmed in the grip of the spell. Runes carved into its scalp flared with crackling, greenish flames and the stench of burnt, greasy fur hung thick in the cold air of the necromancer’s great hall. Nagash continued to chant, focussing his will to a razor-keen edge as he tried to carve out the knowledge he sought from the wretched creature’s brain.

  A roiling froth of memories and emotions flowed across the surface of his mind, rushing past almost too swiftly to grasp. The taste was bitter and strangely potent, utterly unlike the human essences he had consumed over the centuries. The thought processes were difficult to grasp, much less understand. The necromancer redoubled his efforts. This was the highest-ranking prisoner his constructs had ever caught. Such an opportunity might not come again for months, by which point it would be far too late. The war would not—could not—last for more than another thirteen days. His power—and by extension, his very existence—would not last beyond that point.

  Glimpses of battles fought in the last few years flitted across Nagash’s mind, yet when he tried to grasp them, they broke apart like quicksilver. More power, he thought, his anger mounting. I must use more power.

  There had been no new supplies of abn-i-khat since the fall of mine shaft three, close to two and a half years ago, and the demands of the war had consumed his remaining stores at a prodigious rate. Like a miserly river merchant, he knew down to the ounce how much of the stone he had left. Every iota he consumed hastened the moment of his extinction.

  Reluctantly, Nagash reached with bony fingers for the small leather bag hanging at his waist. With deft, spider-like strokes, he undid the thick cords securing the mouth of the bag and reached carefully inside. A moment later he drew out a fragment of stone the size of a sesame seed, pinned between the pointed tip of thumb and forefinger. A moment later, the piece of abn-i-khat flared like a hot coal. He absorbed the spark of energy hungrily and fed it into the ritual circle surrounding the tormented rat-thing.

  At once, the creature’s thoughts took on more weight and clarity, but Nagash knew the effects were temporary at best. He reached deeper into the prisoner’s mind, mercilessly looting its memories. The creature’s screams turned to a choking rattle. Bloody froth tinged the corners of its mouth and its tail lashed spasmodically against the stone floor.

  Nagash saw the tunnels leading up to the stone barricades guarding the lowest levels of his fortress, only this time it was through the eyes of an invader. He saw companies of ratmen crouching in the bastions once held by his own warriors, and thousands more teeming in the echoing tunnels of mine shafts one, two and three. Excavation work at mine shaft four had been suspended, he saw, and the tunnel converted into the invaders’ new base camp. Cook-fires burned by the score along the length of the passageway, amid the small forges of field armourers and sprawling caches of weapons, ammunition and other supplies.

  The necromancer seized on these memories in particular, sifting through them carefully for what he sought. And then he saw it—a huge pavilion of wood and tanned hides, situated roughly in the centre of the disorderly camp. Hulking, broad-shouldered ratmen stood guard at each corner and at the entrances to the enclosure. A steady stream of slaves came and went from within, bearing trays of food and jars of wine.

  Nagash stopped chanting. Cold, mirthless laughter echoed through the minds of the barbarian immortals gathered in the hall. Released from the necromancer’s sorcerous grip, the rat-thing’s corpse slumped to the floor.

  A dozen pairs of cold, unblinking eyes watched Nagash as he turned and slowly climbed the steps to his shadow-haunted throne. Bragadh, Diarid, Thestus and Akatha waited in a loose semicircle on the far side of the ritual circle, their pale flesh glimmering faintly in the dim light. Their robes were ragged and faded with time; the battered scale armour of the warriors was tarnished nearly black. Their faces were etched by the constant thirst for the necromancer’s elixir. Grim and tormented as restless ghosts, they waited in uneasy silence for their master’s command.

  Eight of Bragadh’s distant ancestors stood guard around Nagash’s throne, gripping bared blades that flickered with baleful corpse-light. The wights were the first undead warriors that Nagash had raised from the barrows that had once littered the plain at the foot of the great mountain. These days they accompanied him wherever he went, for the enemy now infested the halls of his own fortress, skulking about and slitting throats with near impunity.

  There were other things abroad in the halls of Nagashizzar as well. Nagash settled carefully onto his throne, his burning eyes sweeping the great hall for signs of intrusion. For some time now he had been catching glimpses from the corners of his vision: fleeting images of distant, glowing forms tha
t vanished whenever he tried to focus on them. The figures seemed to follow him, dogging his heels like a pack of hungry jackals.

  Of late, the sightings had grown more numerous. They seemed to be edging closer, as though sensing that he was reaching the limits of his power. Once, on a moonless night close to the hour of the dead, he had roused from his meditations and seen a figure staring at him from the shadows at the foot of the throne. A woman, clad in the finery of lost Khemri, pale-skinned and as beautiful as Asaph herself. Her eyes were pools of darkness, depthless and cold as death. By the time he’d roused himself from his throne the apparition was gone, but the memory of it troubled him still.

  The last time he’d seen Neferem was in the barren wastes far to the west of Nagashizzar and the Sour Sea, when he’d wandered, raving and alone, after his defeat in Nehekhara. In life she had been Queen of Khemri and the embodiment of the sacred covenant between the Nehekharans and their gods; for that he had taken her from her husband and enslaved her, bending her divine power to his will. Later, when it suited his purposes, he destroyed her, breaking the power of the old gods forever. Now, her soul lingered in the dark limbo that lay beyond the realm of the living, unable to find her way to the afterlife now that the covenant with the gods had been broken.

  Neferem had haunted his steps through the wasteland, watching him weaken with every passing night and savouring his torment. She spoke of the thousands of lost souls who waited for him across the threshold and the terrible reckoning he would face. But then the ratmen had found him, and from their corpses he learned the power of the abn-i-khat. She did not appear to him after that. As Nagash regained his strength, he had dismissed the apparition as a fever dream—the by-product of deprivation and a festering head wound and nothing more. What her return meant now, at the darkest hour of the war, he did not care to speculate.

  The necromancer’s burning gaze raked the shadows of the great hall. Finding them empty, he turned his attention to his lieutenants. The time had come at last. After five bitter years, he would finally put Bragadh and the others to the test.

  The ratmen are at the barricades, Nagash declared, the words grinding together like stones in the minds of his immortals. They have massed by the tens of thousands in the upper mine shafts. The final assault could come within days. The last battle of the war is upon us. Nagash leaned forwards, his bony fingertips scraping across the arms of the black throne. Now we shall strike.

  A ripple of unease passed through the assembled immortals. Bragadh looked to his companions and then gazed bleakly up at the throne.

  “Death in battle is preferable to surrender,” he said, the words bubbling thickly from his throat. Both lungs had been ravaged by deep wounds during the defence of mine shaft four; the ratmen’s poisoned blades had etched scars that never healed, despite the power of Nagash’s elixir. “The ratmen will pay a bitter price before we are destroyed.”

  Nagash’s burning eyes narrowed on Bragadh. I do not speak of surrender, northman. When we attack, it will be to drive the vermin from the mountain once and for all. The necromancer clenched a fist. We will tear the heart out of the enemy in a single stroke and send the rest fleeing whence they came.

  Once again, Bragadh exchanged uneasy glances with Diarid and Thestus before facing his master. “The enemy outnumbers our warriors almost a hundred to one,” he said, “and there is little of the magic stone left. How can we possibly defeat them?”

  “Bragadh speaks truly,” Thestus said, stepping forwards and resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “We cannot prevail here, master. If each of us killed a score of the creatures before we were slain, it would still not be enough.” He hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. “Would… would it not be wiser to quit the mountain altogether? What if we took the army north, back to the hill forts? We could make war on the greenskins and replenish our depleted warbands. Then, when we had regained our strength, we could—”

  There will be no retreat.

  The words sliced like a knife into their minds. Thestus made a choking sound and staggered backwards. Dark ichor oozed from the corners of his eyes.

  All is going according to plan, Nagash told them. We are not so weak as the enemy has been led to believe, nor quite so desperate. Every defeat, every withdrawal for the last five years, was made with one purpose in mind, to lure the invaders into a trap from which they will never escape.

  Bragadh frowned. “What trap, master?” he replied. “We were told nothing of this.”

  All the better to convince the enemy that they held the upper hand, Nagash replied. The ratmen had to believe that our strength was nearly spent. The desperation of you and your men no doubt helped to convince them.

  Thestus spread his arms. “But why, master? To what end?”

  To tempt the enemy into carelessness, Nagash said. The speed of our retreat has forced the enemy to pursue us, stretching their lines of communication and complicating their leaders’ ability to control their troops. The leaders of the ratmen have been forced to leave the safety of their subterranean fortress and relocate to mine shaft four so they can direct the army and further their own petty schemes.

  The necromancer leaned back against his throne. What they do not know is that there are hidden tunnels that open into all four of the upper mine shafts. The enemy has been too preoccupied to find them, and that will be their undoing. Nagash pointed at Bragadh with a skeletal finger. Tonight, you will quietly withdraw your warriors from the barricades, and we will lead them through the tunnels to mine shaft four. We will overrun the enemy’s base camp, kill their leaders, and then fall upon the enemy army from the rear. By the end of the day tomorrow, the invaders will be in full retreat.

  Bragadh folded his powerful arms. “A cunning plan, but a risky one,” he said. “It will leave the barricades very thinly held. If we were to be cut off, even for a short while, the enemy could break through our defences and seize the fortress with ease.” He eyed the necromancer warily. “Unless there are other reserve forces you’ve kept hidden from us as well.”

  “It does not matter. Nagash is right. The time to strike is now.”

  Bragadh turned, his dark eyes widening in surprise as Akatha stepped forwards. “It’s not your place to speak of such things, witch,” he said darkly.

  “I decide my place in things, Bragadh, and you well know it,” Akatha replied. “And I say we must attack. Our people were not born to cower behind stone walls, nor slink back to our hill forts and yield our possessions to the enemy.” She glared hard at Thestus, who visibly shrank beneath the witch’s gaze. “Let the Faithful hear the war-song and spill the blood of their foes, as is proper.”

  “We will be beset from all sides!” Bragadh protested.

  Akatha raised her chin defiantly. “It has ever been thus,” she replied. “Perhaps you have forgotten, Bragadh Maghur’kan, but I have not.”

  “This could mean the end of us,” Bragadh told her. “Can you not see that?”

  The witch uttered a cold, mirthless laugh. “I see more than you know, Bragadh,” she said. “Never doubt that for a moment.”

  Bragadh took a step towards Akatha, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. An angry protest rose to his lips, but suddenly, all of the northmen froze, their bodies going rigid as though gripped in the fist of a giant.

  Nagash studied his lieutenants in silence for a moment, watching them suffer under the weight of his terrible will.

  Heed the witch, the necromancer told them. For once, she and I are in accord. Prepare yourselves, for tomorrow the war ends, in victory or in death eternal.

  ——

  The Dispossessed

  Lahmia, the City of the Dawn, in the 99th year of Usirian the Dreadful

  (-1285 Imperial Reckoning)

  Lord Ushoran walked slowly around the blood-spattered wooden frame, studying the gasping, wide-eyed wreck of a man hanging from its leather straps. The immortal pursed his fleshless lips and reached for the round knob of a long, gold needle that
jutted from the angle where the man’s neck and shoulder met. He twisted it ever so slightly and the victim’s body tensed in agony. A thin hiss escaped the man’s ragged lips; leather creaked as his back arched in a bow, bringing him up from the frame’s central support. Flayed muscles knotted across the man’s chest and shoulders, sending fresh rivulets of blood coursing down his bare torso.

  The Lord of Masks smiled. Behind the bland illusion of his handsome nobleman’s face, he ran his long tongue over the tips of his fangs. How he wished he’d taken more than a cursory interest in Nagash’s books when they’d first come into King Lamashizzar’s possession all those centuries ago. The necromancer’s druchii tutors had been truly gifted in the arts of inflicting pain.

  Ushoran continued to circle around the suffering man, his sandals tracking noisily through the puddles of dark blood congealing on the marble floor. The stench of death hung heavy in the chamber, its suffocating weight all but impervious to the braziers of incense that burned next to the dais at the far end of the room. Once upon a time, the Hall of Reverent Contemplation had been a grand and refined space, where the cloistered Queen of Lahmia would appear on high, holy days and give her blessings to the royal family and the city’s most prominent nobles. After the creation of the temple and Neferata’s elaborate, illusory funeral, the hall became her throne room, where she continued to rule Lahmia through the auspices of her Deathless Court.

  All that had been forgotten since the treachery of Ubaid and the disappearance of Alcadizzar. Now the chamber was little better than a charnel house, devoted to the queen’s insatiable thirst for vengeance. The floor beneath the dais was crowded with implements of torture: wooden racks and bronze cages, vats of oil, and tables lined with a grisly array of needles, hooks, saws and knives. Day and night, the chamber reeked like an abattoir. An ocean of blood had been poured onto its marble floor over the last few years, and the tide showed no signs of abating.