03 - Nagash Immortal

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

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  “I should not be here,” Akatha said, her voice echoing hollowly in the confined space of the tunnel. “I belong with Bragadh. It is an ill-omened thing to send a chieftain to battle without a witch to sing for him.”

  Nagash said nothing. Rock bubbled and hissed beneath his fingertip as he traced a magical circle on the floor. The tunnel had no exit—it merely ended at a rough-hewn wall of granite, some three feet thick. Magical runes had been etched into the surface of the rock and inlaid with abn-i-khat years ago; they formed a tall, wide arch, broad enough for two men standing abreast. His wight bodyguard formed a protective barrier between him and the archway, their dark blades held ready.

  Behind the necromancer came the muted rattle of weapons and armour as his warriors awaited the call to battle. The tunnel was, in truth, a long, spiralling ramp that bored down through the bedrock and terminated at the far end of the mine shaft. Three others like it had been sunk through the stone on the opposite side of the shaft, each packed with a thousand northmen and led by Bragadh, Diarid and Thestus. A fifth tunnel, which had been opened months ago to allow his constructs to enter the mine shaft in search of useful prisoners, had been quietly sealed up just a few hours before to maintain the element of surprise.

  Akatha stood with folded arms to Nagash’s right, her expression hidden behind a fall of ash-stained hair. Her pale skin shone with unnatural vigour, throwing her ghostly blue tattoos into sharp relief. She had drunk deep from the necromancer’s cup, along with Bragadh and the other immortals, just before joining their mortal kinsmen in the fortress depths. The necromancer had been generous with his elixir, restoring his lieutenants to their former might. The witch radiated arcane power, like the churning clouds of a fierce desert storm.

  “What is it you wish me to do?” she asked. “If I am not to sing the war-song, then what?”

  Nagash finished inscribing the last of the ritual symbols. Kneeling amid them, he reached past the runes and etched a glowing green circle in the rock. He had consumed the most burning stone of all, and the sensation of raw, unbridled power filled him with a terrible, mirthless joy. The cold hilt of the obsidian blade fairly trembled in his hand, its ancient spirit stirring at the prospect of battle.

  The necromancer straightened, calling to mind the words of the ritual he’d created years ago and held in reserve in anticipation of this very moment.

  Bear witness, he said to her. Behold the vengeance of Nagash.

  The incantation reverberated through the necromancer’s brain, fuelled by the power of the burning stone, and the runes carved into the rock blazed with light. Within moments, thin wisps of smoke rose from the sigils carved into the rock wall, and the temperature in the crowded tunnel began to rise. The northmen closest to Nagash began to shift uneasily and mutter blasphemous prayers as the wall began to blacken and a malevolent hissing sound filled the air.

  Focussing his will, Nagash raised his left hand and slowly made a fist. The air shimmered with heat. When he reached the end of the incantation he punched his fist at the wall and unleashed a fraction of his pent-up energy; the iron-hard granite contained within the arch exploded outwards in a furious crack of thunder.

  Hundreds of razor-edged fragments scythed through the mine shaft around the breach, followed by a roiling wall of blinding dust, heat and rushing air. The few ratmen unlucky enough to be caught within the blast were killed instantly; their pulverised bodies were caught by the Shockwave and hurled dozens of feet through the air. Stacked crates and wicker baskets were torn apart, their contents scattered across the mine shaft and in some cases ignited by the searing air.

  A string of three more blasts ripped through the lower end of the mine shaft as the runic arches inset into the remaining assault tunnels detonated as well. A cyclone of dust and howling, furnace-like air roared up the shaft towards the ratmen’s pavilion, punctuated by the roaring war cries of the northmen.

  Attack!

  Nagash’s command echoed in the minds of his bodyguards and lieutenants. The wights swept forwards in a silent, deadly wave, their movements lent unearthly speed by another of the necromancer’s incantations. Nagash followed them, his burning gaze searching the battlefield for foes, and the barbarians came charging in his wake.

  The necromancer glided like a ghost through the heat and the swirling smoke. Ahead of him ranged the wights, moving so swiftly their feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground. Shouts and screams filled the air. Nagash could hear the charge of Diarid’s barbarian warriors off to his right and the shouts of Bragadh’s barbarians to his left. Thestus and his men were somewhat ahead and to Bragadh’s left; his lieutenants were entrusted with blocking any would-be rescuers advancing from the enemy forces in the upper and lower mine shafts. They would protect his flanks while he and his warriors raced to the pavilion and killed every rat-creature he found there.

  For the first few minutes, the only ratmen Nagash found were the twisted and torn bodies of those caught by the initial blast. Shrill cries and panicked screeches sounded ahead and to either side of him, lost behind mounds of supplies and churning wisps of dust. His wight bodyguards had caught up to the rear edge of the smoke cloud he’d created; they were nothing more than wavering silhouettes, tinged by faint haloes of green grave-light. The undead warriors raced on without pause through the scalding cloud, driven by the hateful will of their master.

  Nagash charged into the whirlwind after them. The hot dust filled his hood and blew it back from his blackened skull. It sang against his stone blade, causing it to utter a low, crystalline moan. His robes and the thick leather underlayment of his armour began to smoulder in the superheated air, but the necromancer scarcely felt its touch. He could dimly sense Akatha and the barbarians some distance behind him, loping like wolves in the dust cloud’s wake.

  They were some three hundred yards from the assault tunnels when Nagash heard screams and shouts in the dust clouds up ahead. Corpse-light flickered in sweeping, deadly arcs, and the cries of the ratmen were cut short. A heartbeat later he came upon the first of the corpses. The ratmen had been cut down in mid-stride as they stumbled blindly through the dust. Their fur had been burnt away, along with their ears and their deep-set eyes. Many were still toppling to the ground as the necromancer rushed past.

  And then, without warning, there were ratmen everywhere. They came screaming out of the veil of dust from all sides, their snouts blistered and bleeding and their chisel teeth bared. Wight blades flickered through the air, slicing through armour and sinking into flesh. The blades froze the blood and silenced the hearts of those they touched; Nagash watched ratmen stagger beneath the blows, their last breaths billowing in jets of glittering vapour as they fell.

  Still more of the creatures charged Nagash from left and right. Those that had managed to avoid being blinded by the storm rushed directly at him, their swords raised to strike.

  He met them with a cruel laugh and a blasphemous incantation. Streaks of green fire burst from the skeletal fingers of his free hand, scything through the ratmen on his left. The creatures collapsed, shrieking in agony as their bodies boiled from the inside out.

  No sooner had the sorcerous bolts sped from his hand than Nagash was turning to face the ratmen charging from his right. Roaring, exultant, he raised his obsidian blade and fell upon them. His sword flashed in blurring arcs, biting into armour, flesh and bone and snuffing out the life within. Their blows turned aside from his enchanted armour, or shattered against its scales. He beckoned to the wretched rat-things, daring them to do their worst, his burning eyes mocking them as they died beneath his blade. When there were no foes left to kill, he spun about and stalked back through the dust clouds, hunting down stumbling, blinded ratmen and slaying every one he could find.

  The fight lasted barely a minute. One moment Nagash was lost in an ecstasy of slaughter and the next he was standing amid piles of lifeless bodies, watching the surviving ratmen fleeing deeper into the dust cloud, towards the distant pavilio
n. The necromancer’s bloodthirsty howl shook the aether as he and his wights set off after the retreating ratmen.

  Nothing could stop him now.

  Velsquee nervously fingered one of the god-stone tokens hanging from his neck as he watched the oncoming dust cloud. It filled the wide mine shaft from one side to the other, roiling up from the depths and swallowing everything it touched. A hot wind, dry as bone and reeking of charred flesh, blew full into the Grey Lord’s face. Around him, the heechigar hunched their shoulders and eyed one another apprehensively.

  They’d all known to expect an attack, but nothing quite like this.

  At the far end of the killing ground they’d established around the former pavilion, a black-robed scout-assassin emerged from one of the camp’s narrow lanes. Wisps of smoke rose from his scorched clothing and blood dripped from his blistered tail. The young skaven paused, chest heaving, and searched for the Grey Lord among the tightly packed ranks of storm-walkers. Velsquee let go of the token, took a deep breath, and beckoned to him.

  The scout dashed over, making only the most cursory obeisance before the Grey Lord. Up close, Velsquee could smell the skaven’s burned flesh and the bitter reek of fear-musk.

  “He is-is coming!” the scout gasped in a ragged voice. “The kreekar-gan comes!”

  “I can see that, Shireep!” Velsquee snapped. “Tell me something useful! How many does he have with him?”

  “A-a few thousand,” the scout replied. “No more. Two-two columns on the left, one column on the right. Humans. No bone-men.”

  The Grey Lord nodded. It was more or less what he expected. “How far away?”

  The scout pointed back the way he’d come with a trembling paw. “Just-just the other side of the cloud. Two hundred yards, maybe less.” Eyes wide with terror, Shireep reached out and grabbed Velsquee’s sleeve. “We can’t-can’t stay here! The cloud, it-it burns! By the Horned One, it burns! We have to get out of here!”

  With a snarl, Velsquee tore his paw from Shireep’s grip. In one swift move, he drew his sword from its sheath and slashed at the terrified scout. The enchanted blade sank into Shireep’s chest, and the skaven collapsed with a groan.

  “There will be no retreat!” Velsquee screeched, brandishing his gore-stained blade for all the storm-walkers to see. “The kreekar-gan’s magic cannot harm us. The trap has been set, and he is marching to his doom! This is our moment of victory!”

  As one, the heechigar cheered the Grey Lord, their lusty shouts echoing from the walls. Velsquee passed between the ranks of storm-walkers and beckoned for a messenger. The young clanrat scampered over and cowered at the Grey Lord’s feet.

  “Tell Lord Vittrik and Lord Qweeqwol that it’s time,” Velsquee said. “And pass the word to the left and right flanks to close in.”

  The messenger repeated what he’d been told in a high-pitched voice, and then raced back in the direction of the former pavilion.

  Velsquee returned to the font ranks of the heechigar, his rune-etched sword held at his side. The dust cloud was much closer now, the screams within louder and more distinct. In a few more minutes it would be upon them.

  The Grey Lord reached again for the god-stone token around his neck.

  Nagash’s sword chopped into the edge of the ratman’s shield, carving through the bronze rim and splitting the wood beneath, before lodging in the bones of the warrior’s forearm. The creature stiffened and let out an agonised shriek as the ancient weapon consumed his life essence.

  A spear dug into the necromancer’s side but could find no purchase among the enchanted scales. A sword struck his right shoulderblade and snapped in two with a discordant clang. The ratmen attacked from every direction, clambering over the bodies of the slain to try and reach him. Many were half-blinded by the searing dust cloud, but still they came on, their raw faces twisted into masks of hatred and rage.

  Nagash’s bodyguards fought in a loose semicircle around their master, each one beset by a half-dozen foes. They had pursued the retreating ratmen through the veil of dust, overtaking and killing nearly a score of the wretches before stumbling into another, much larger mob of the creatures just a hundred yards or so from the pavilion. These ratmen were just as ravaged by the dust cloud as the others, but they were far from panicked. Indeed, they almost seemed to be laying in wait for Nagash’s arrival. They swarmed the wights and quickly isolated them; then the rest of the mob turned their attention on the necromancer himself.

  Cursing the ratmen in ancient Nehekharan, Nagash swept his left hand in a wide arc, unleashing a storm of sizzling green bolts into the multitude. A dozen of the creatures fell screaming, but still more closed in to take their place. Snarling, he put a skeletal foot on the fallen skaven’s shield and tore his weapon free. An enemy dagger slipped beneath the heavy sleeve of his armour and scored his upper arm. An axe crashed into his chest and was turned aside in a fan of sorcerous sparks. Nagash caught the axe-arm a glancing blow with his sword, slicing off the ratman’s thumb and snuffing out his life like a candle.

  A two-handed spear thrust struck Nagash in the back, and this time the blade found a chink in his armour. The triangular point punched between the bonze scales and through the leather underlayment, lodging fast between his ribs. Snarling, the necromancer tried to turn and reach his attacker, but the canny ratman dug in his heels and held on fast, effectively trapping Nagash like an insect impaled on a pin.

  Sensing their opportunity, the ratmen closed in. A sword chopped into his upper thigh, carving a notch into the ancient, blackened bone. Nagash stabbed the sword-wielder through the throat, but another of the enemy leapt upon his outstretched sword arm and clung there, effectively trapping it. More blows rained upon his torso and back. Then the tip of another axe blade clipped his spine, just beneath his skull, and he realised how dangerous his situation had become. He threw off the creature that had grabbed him and swung his sword in a wide arc, catching one ratman as he leapt forwards and slicing open his throat, while mentally forming the words of another incantation.

  Suddenly, the dust clouds immediately surrounding Nagash changed their course, rushing towards him and spiralling around his body in ever-swifter circles, until he was entirely hidden within a howling, opaque column of pulverised stone. With a crack of thunder, the column collapsed—only to reappear again a dozen yards back. The ratman who’d impaled the necromancer found himself staring at his bare spear-point, while Nagash emerged from the smaller column of dust directly behind him.

  Laughing, the necromancer unleashed another storm of sorcerous bolts that wrought havoc among the mob of rat-creatures. A score of his attackers died where they stood, and the rest turned and fled. The retreating ratmen sowed panic among their fellows and within moments the entire mob was in full flight, disappearing into the swirling dust cloud.

  Nagash paused a moment to assess his strength. He still possessed sizable reserves of power, though he’d spent far more than expected since the attack began. His wights awaited him, tireless and deadly as ever, though their armour was badly battered and their bones had been chipped and scored in dozens of places by enemy blades. What was more, he could hear more sounds of fighting off to his left and right. His flanking columns had come under concerted attack. What should have been a swift, devastating raid on the enemy camp was rapidly turning into a pitched battle. The question was whether or not the ratmen were present in sufficient numbers to save their leaders from destruction.

  Onwards. Quickly! The swifter they reached the pavilion, the greater the chance that the plan would succeed.

  The wights turned without hesitation and fell in alongside Nagash as he rushed through the swirling dust. He could still hear the panicked cries of the ratmen somewhere ahead. Just a few dozen yards more…

  Nagash didn’t notice the sudden thickening of the dust clouds until he was well within it. An instant later he felt the unmistakeable sensation of passing through a membrane of magical energy—and then he and his wights burst through the gritty cl
oud and into open air.

  They were standing at the edge of a wide, cleared space possibly two hundred paces square, its edges clearly defined by the churning walls of dust held at bay by a powerful magic ward. A hundred paces away, safe from the dust’s touch, stood hundreds of hulking, heavily armoured ratmen, arrayed in ranks eight warriors deep and holding heavy bronze polearms at the ready. Standing at the centre of this powerful formation stood a tall ratman in gold-chased armour. Tokens of burning stone glittered like a constellation of stars around his dark-furred neck and a larger, oval stone blazed from the hilt of his curved sword.

  Yet it wasn’t the fearsome sight of the waiting enemy warriors, or the baleful figure of the enemy warlord that gave Nagash pause. It was the forest of bare, wooden stakes that spread across the cleared ground a few dozen paces beyond the ratmen. The hide walls of the vast pavilion, Nagash saw, had been taken down, and the furniture within had been cleared away. All that remained was a high, broad dais, at what would have been the centre of the enclosure. More ratmen moved atop the platform; Nagash could not make out what they were doing, but there was no mistaking the seething aura of magical energy gathered there. This was the source of the magical ward protecting the enemy leader and his warriors.

  Raising his sword in challenge, Nagash drew upon the power of the abn-i-khat. Sorcerous thunder rolled in counterpoint to the incantation that reverberated in the necromancer’s mind. The air about him crackled with energy, gaining intensity until arcs of green lightning lashed angrily all around him. Nagash stoked the power of the magical storm until its fury threatened to consume him, then flung out his hand and unleashed it on the enemy warriors.

  Faster than thought, the curtain of lightning raced across the open ground, its arcs of fire carving channels in the bare rock—and then Nagash felt the power atop the dais flare into life. Invisible energies attacked his spell, unravelling its weave with a deftness that the necromancer never thought possible. The arcs of lightning paled, diminishing swiftly from one moment to the next, until finally fading from existence just a few feet from their intended target.