03 - Nagash Immortal

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  “Us? Oh, no,” Heru protested, placing a hand on his uncle’s arm. “I’m going to go lead my people. Your place is here.” Without giving Alcadizzar a chance to reply, he brushed past and shoved the tent flap aside. “I’ll send a report on the situation as soon as I’m able. Just get those Lybarans moving, eh?”

  “I will,” the king said, but before he could say any more, Heru was gone.

  Alcadizzar clenched his fists. Off to the north, he could hear the faint roar of battle. The sound called to him, setting his blood afire. With a frustrated sigh, he went back to the map table and studied the positions of his troops.

  Just then came another wave of trumpet calls—this time, however, from the south. Alcadizzar’s eyes widened.

  “Runner!” he called again. His carefully prepared plan was threatening to come apart at the seams.

  Just ahead of Ushoran, a man was brought down by a trio of skeletons. The warrior fell with a shout, slashing wildly with his sword and shearing off several ribs from the nearest corpse. The skeleton took no notice, its finger-bones clawing deep into the warrior’s throat. Arterial blood jetted into the air. The second corpse pulled the sword from the dying man’s hand and the trio continued on, seeking another victim.

  The undead horde flooded into the enemy camp in a silent, shambling tide of bone, tearing apart anyone and anything that got in their way. The enemy fled before them, bellowing and cursing in fear. Those that stood their ground and tried to fight were quickly overwhelmed. Here and there, tents were afire, bathing the battleground in garish crimson light. Off to Ushoran’s right there was a blaze of sparks as a skeleton kicked its way through an abandoned cook-fire and kept going, its rotting clothes burning greasily about its legs and waist.

  Ushoran threw back his head and howled like one of the hungry spirits of the waste. He thirsted for the taste of hot, bitter blood.

  There was another line of tents up ahead. Several skeletons had already reached them and were clawing at their sides. Beyond them, Ushoran heard a throaty roar of challenge; the Rasetrans had finally chosen to turn and make a stand. Grinning evilly, the immortal picked up speed, loping past the slower skeletons, between the tents, and into the open ground on the other side.

  The Lord of Masks let out a grunt of surprise. Some twenty yards past the nearest tents was a long, somewhat irregular line of barricades, formed of tall wicker baskets filled with packed earth and rock.

  The Rasetrans had formed up behind the barricades, thousands strong; firelight flickered balefully off a thicket of spear-points that stretched as far as Ushoran’s eye could see.

  It was a sight that would have given the stoutest heart pause. But not the dead; the skeletons looked upon the enemy line and were unmoved. The horde came on, filling the open ground before the barricades and throwing itself against the enemy line. Spears jabbed and thrust, but could find no purchase. Fearless, mindless, the undead clawed at the earth-filled baskets, climbing onto them and reaching for the warriors on the other side. Men shouted oaths and struck at the corpses with spear butts, or the metal-rimmed edges of their shields. Smashed limbs and broken skulls were hurled back upon the oncoming tide, but the advance never faltered.

  For the moment, the enemy line was holding, smashing apart the corpses as they clambered onto the barricade. Snarling hungrily, Ushoran broke into a run. Calling upon the power in his veins, he gathered himself and leapt like a cat, clearing the struggling mass of skeletons and coming down on the far side of the barricade. Two men fell screaming underneath the immortal; a spear punched through his hip and the wooden haft snapped in two. Ushoran felt nothing but a savage, bloodthirsty joy. With a sweep of his hand he tore a man’s guts out and hurled his screaming body high into the air. Another blow crumpled a warrior’s helmet and pulped the skull beneath.

  Shouts, screams and curses thundered in Ushoran’s ears. The enemy charged in from all sides, jabbing at him with their spears. Laughing wickedly, the immortal swept the weapons aside like twigs, clawing for the soft flesh behind them. Leather and armour tore like cloth beneath his talons. The scent of blood filled his nostrils.

  Roaring like a hungry lion, the immortal plunged deeper into the mass of screaming warriors, sowing terror and death as he went.

  The barbarian came at Ankhat with a furious bellow, eyes wild and bearded mouth agape. He was a giant, like all the men of the far north, broad of shoulder and thick of limb, clad in a heavy leather tunic and protected by a wooden shield the size of a chariot wheel. The northman brandished a fearsome, single-bladed battle axe in his knobby fist, drawn back to strike at the immortal’s head.

  He might have been trudging through wet sand, as far as Ankhat was concerned. The immortal darted forwards just as the axe fell, its blade tracing a broad, languid arc. His sword flashed upwards, chopping through the barbarian’s thick wrist, then down again in a backhand stroke that smashed the northman’s hip. The warrior crumpled, his bold yell transformed into a scream of mortal agony.

  The barbarians threw themselves at the advancing battle-line without thought to order or discipline. They came charging out of the darkness of the camp in ragged mobs, smashing bodily into the shield wall and hewing at the heads and shoulders of their foes. Many times they were struck through by spears at the moment of impact, but the pain of their injuries only made them fight the harder. Men fell screaming, clutching at split skulls or ruined faces, or struggling to stanch the blood pouring from gaping throats. Others pressed forwards, filling the gaps in the line, and the companies continued to advance.

  Another brute rushed at Ankhat, bloodshot eyes glaring hatefully over the rim of his shield. The immortal fixed the barbarian with a haughty stare and bared his fangs; the northman pulled up short, shouting in terror.

  Ankhat took off the top of his head with a single, swift stroke. More of the mercenaries crashed into the line of guardsmen to the immortal’s right; men grunted and cursed, hacking at the giants with their polearms.

  “Forwards!” Ankhat cried, adding his own voice to the din. Trumpets were pealing up and down the battle-line, urging the men onwards. The immortal cut the legs out from under a charging barbarian, then stabbed the throat of another who was locked in battle with the guardsman to his left. He had lost track of the number of foes he’d slain since the advance began. Twenty? Thirty? They all blurred together in a magnificent haze of screams and spilled blood. Part of him longed to leave the slow-moving companies behind and truly indulge his hunger. What a slaughter he might have wrought then!

  Now, abruptly, the tide had shifted. The barbarians were withdrawing, racing back towards the camp at the bellowing sound of deep-throated horns. The Lahmians, flush with success, flung insults and jeers at the retreating mercenaries. Ankhat, whose eyes were far keener in the dark, saw why; the enemy had finally managed to restore some order in the camp and the rest of the northmen had been formed together in something approaching a proper battle-line, some twenty yards away. As the Lahmians approached, they roared in challenge, striking their weapons against their shields and sending up a thunderous clatter of metal and wood.

  Ankhat grinned hungrily, levelling his sword at the enemy. “At them!” he commanded, and the guardsmen shouted in answer. He turned to the trumpeter beside him. “Signal the chariots to advance and wheel right!”

  Here was the moment that they would break the northmen. Ankhat sensed it in his bones, like a lion studying his prey. They must have squandered almost half their number already; what remained couldn’t hold once the chariots took them in the flank. The barbarians would break and run, leaving the centre of the enemy army dangerously exposed.

  Ankhat growled in anticipation of the bloodshed that would follow.

  The young messenger was pale and trembling. Ochre dust and streaks of someone else’s blood caked his bare forearms and calves. He’d been out on the battlefield less than thirty minutes.

  “Rasetra is-is giving ground,” the boy said, his voice hitching as he gasped for breath
. “The-the barricades on the r-right have been overrun. The-the dead are walking, and-and worse—”

  Alcadizzar bit back his impatience. The boy was only twelve or so, he reminded himself. There were horrors walking the field that few grown men could face, let alone a mere boy. He gripped the child’s arm reassuringly.

  “Put that aside, lad,” he said, in as persuasive a tone as he could muster. “You’re a soldier in the army now. I need you to do your duty. Do you understand?”

  The messenger drew in a deep breath and visibly calmed himself. “Y-yes, great one. I understand.”

  “Good. Then show me on the map here where Prince Heru’s troops are.”

  The boy nodded. “They’re here, more or less,” he said, tracing an arc that roughly paralleled the line of barricades, but was anywhere from seventy-five to a hundred yards behind them.

  Alcadizzar gritted his teeth. Another hundred yards and the attackers would be at the edge of the inner camp. “Can Prince Heru hold them?”

  The messenger paused, consulting his memory. “He said that they are outnumbered and making a fighting withdrawal, and need reinforcements urgently. He also told me to ask you where the damned catapults were. He said to tell you in those words.”

  “I can well believe that,” Alcadizzar said. He’d already sent two more messengers to get the Lybarans’ weapons in action. What was the point of dragging them halfway across eastern Nehekhara if they weren’t put to use? “Well done,” he said absently, his gaze poring over the battle map. “Have the servants give you a cup of wine and catch your breath.”

  As the messenger withdrew, the king took stock of the situation. Zandri had sent urgent messages saying they were under heavy attack from the south-east, but Alcadizzar didn’t know how much stock to put in the reports. Meanwhile, on the left flank, Rasetra was in grave peril. Ka-Sabar, however, reported that the centre, facing the city’s closest gate, was silent.

  What was Neferata up to? Where was the main threat? Was it the attack on the left, or on the right, or was there something else entirely that he’d overlooked? He longed to grab a horse and go review the battlefield for himself, but he knew that would only complicate things further. It was just like one of Jabari’s maddening exercises—only this time, his orders were getting real men killed.

  Alcadizzar sighed. He needed to re-orient his troops to deal with the threats to his flanks. Ka-Sabar’s heavy infantry could be wheeled around to support Rasetra, but that would leave the centre wide open. Did he dare take the risk?

  He didn’t see much choice. The threat to the centre was pure speculation, while the ones on the flanks were all too real.

  Alcadizzar motioned to three of the messengers who were waiting quietly just inside the tent. He pointed to the first one. “Carry this message to Queen Omorose. Tell her that the Numasi must counter-attack on the right. Swing wide and take the enemy in the flank. Go!”

  As the boy rushed out into the night, Alcadizzar turned to the second messenger. “Go to the reserves. The forces of Khemri and Mahrak are to move up and hold the centre. Ride with them; when they are in position, inform King Aten-sefu that the Iron Legion is to pull back and support Prince Heru on the left.”

  The second boy nodded hastily and raced outside. The king studied the map and nodded to himself. It was a risk, but a calculated one. He still had the Tomb Guard in reserve, just in case.

  Alcadizzar reached out and gripped the third messenger’s arm. “Go to the Lybarans. Tell them to get their cursed machines working, or I’ll head back there myself and start firing them at the Lahmians.”

  Farther west, at the rear of the enemy camp, there was a sudden flare of bluish light. Moments later, a half-dozen globes of fire were hurled skywards, arcing over the invaders’ tents before plunging to the ground off to the north-east. The balls of pitch exploded on impact, showering the area with hungry blue flames. Scores of slow-moving, lurching corpses were caught in the blasts, their rotting flesh sizzling and their bones cracking in the intense heat.

  W’soran watched the battle unfolding from the safety of the gatehouse and hissed in satisfaction. The ritual had worked to perfection; he could feel the vast horde moving along the plain below, as though his mind were bound to each and every one by an invisible gossamer cord. There were thousands of them, far more than the pitiful display the mortal defenders of the city could manage, and they were eating their way deep into the enemy’s flank. The bursts of fire only served to better illuminate how desperate the enemy’s position was; now he could see that his undead slaves had overrun a long line of barricades and driven the mortals back almost as far as the inner core of the camp. No doubt that little fool, Alcadizzar, was somewhere in there, frantically trying to find a way out of the noose that was tightening around his neck.

  Still more globes of pitch fell among the undead host. More skeletons fell, consumed by the flames, but they felt no pain at their demise and neither did W’soran. He could lose many hundreds more and scarcely feel the loss. There would be more than enough to complete the destruction of the invaders.

  As the globes of burning pitch passed over the camp, W’soran noted a commotion in the centre of the enemy’s positions. Armoured troops were pulling back and heading to the north, undoubtedly in a vain attempt to save the doomed flank. All that remained in the centre were a few companies of lightly armoured troops.

  The necromancer smiled mirthlessly, revelling in his new-found power. He turned to Neferata, who stood with her retinue of maidens at a window to his right. “They are growing desperate,” he croaked. “Soon their troops will grow tired, while mine will not. They will give in to their fear, while mine feel none. They cannot hope to win.”

  Neferata studied the panoramic spectacle of the battlefield. If she’d heard W’soran, she gave no sign. Her eyes were distant, her expression grave. “The time has come,” she said coldly. The queen glanced over at the necromancer. “You have done well. Press the attack upon the right. I will deal with Alcadizzar.”

  W’soran gave a deep, slightly mocking bow. “Of course,” he said. “I should have expected no less. And what will you do when you find him?”

  There was no reply. When he straightened, the queen and her maidens were gone.

  * * *

  The man’s head came away with a crunch of cartilage and a torrent of blood. Ushoran flung the grisly trophy at the enemy battle-line, then bent to drink deeply from the liquid still jetting from the corpse’s neck.

  Balls of fire hissed overhead, plunging well behind Ushoran and among the rear ranks of the undead. The noise of battle rang in his ears and beat at the bones in his chest; a grinding, surf-like roar of shouts, screams and hoarse battle cries. The enemy line was giving ground slowly but steadily, being forced ever backwards in the direction of the centre of camp. Somehow, their discipline held together despite the relentless pressure of the skeletal horde. Twice now they had launched counter-attacks with chariots in hopes of breaking up the undead advance, but the walking dead simply shrugged off the losses and pressed onwards with single-minded intent.

  Ushoran’s muscular arms and torso were matted with gore. Blood and bits of flesh drooled from his gaping jaws. Never, in all his long existence, had he imagined anything so glorious as this. He’d killed hundreds of men in the space of the last hour, smashing, clawing, biting and tearing in an orgy of bloodletting and slaughter. All the many nights he’d spent in cellars across Lahmia, drawing out the pleasure of a screaming victim’s death agonies… it paled in comparison to this.

  The Lord of Masks tossed the headless body aside. His body was near to bursting with vigour. Laughing cruelly, he advanced on the enemy line once again. The enemy warriors in front of him shouted and screamed, recoiling at his approach; many of them had been given ample opportunity to witness what he was capable of. Several flung spears at him, which he batted carelessly aside.

  Snarling, Ushoran broke into a run. He wasn’t interested in foot soldiers any longer; this time, h
e meant to find the man commanding this rabble and tear him to pieces.

  Just short of the enemy’s front rank he gathered his energies and bounded into the air. The battle-line was much thinner than when the battle began; he cleared the remaining ranks with ease and landed on the other side.

  There were wounded men everywhere; soldiers who had staggered out of the battle-line and were trying to tend their injuries. Ushoran tore into them with savage glee, savouring their screams as he ripped into them with claw and tooth. As he did so, he searched for men on horseback, who would be riding behind the battle-line and shouting orders or encouragement.

  There! Off to his right, some fifty yards away, a large group of horsemen was moving in his direction. Some carried torches, perhaps to draw the eye of the soldiers more easily. Among them he could see a fluttering standard; no doubt the enemy leader on this part of the battlefield. Like a hungry lion he charged at the oncoming riders, letting out a guttural roar as he approached.

  The sound had the desired effect. The horsemen scattered before him, spreading out left and right with surprising speed. Directly ahead, Ushoran could see the enemy standard and a group of armoured riders surrounding it. The riders stood their ground, drawing their swords and grimly preparing to receive his charge.

  A powerful impact struck him in the side, hard enough to stagger him. Ushoran reached down and felt the thick stub of an arrow jutting from his ribs. Two more missiles struck him in the left leg, knocking it out from underneath him. He fell, tumbling, and still more arrows hissed past his head.

  Ushoran was on his feet in an instant. Horses were dashing past him to the left and right, their riders aiming powerful horn bows at him. He realised with a shock that they weren’t proper cavalry, but robed desert riders. They fired at him as they went by and nearly every missile found its mark. In seconds, he was struck no less than eight times, in his chest, abdomen and arms.