[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer Read online

  “They call themselves druchii, great one,” the ambassador said quickly. “Their ship grounded off our coast during a terrible storm only a few months ago, and they have served as slaves in the royal household ever since.”

  At the sound of the word “slave”, the male druchii turned his head to the ambassador and hissed something in a sibilant, snakelike tongue. The man from Zandri blanched at the sound, but quickly recovered.

  “They are a wonder, are they not?” he said. “It is our king’s wish that they attend upon Khetep’s spirit in the afterlife.” Thutep was taken aback by the offer. Material goods were one thing, an outsider offering slaves for the service of a dead king was something else.

  “Well, it’s certainly a generous gift,” he said slowly, unwilling to give offence.

  Nagash watched the entire exchange with increasing interest. What was the Zandri delegation playing at? Obviously there was much more to this than met the eye. Then he noticed one of the females steady herself and bend her head in concentration. She tried to speak, slurring the words of her chilling language, but nevertheless Nagash sensed a faint wave of power emanate from her like an icy desert wind.

  He stiffened, suddenly alert. Could it be?

  The Grand Hierophant turned to Thutep.

  “Zandri’s offer is unprecedented,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even, “but that does not make it unwelcome. I say we should accept their gift in the spirit it was given, great one.” Thutep beamed.

  “So be it,” he declared. “The slaves should be conducted to the temple,” he said to Nagash. “Will you see to it?” Nagash smiled.

  “I should like nothing more,” he replied.

  THREE

  The Black Vizier

  The Oasis of Zedri, in the 62nd year of Qu’aph the Cunning

  (-1750 Imperial Reckoning)

  Shouts of anguish and fear rent the air above the battlefield as unearthly darkness rolled like a swift tide down the rocky slope and across the bloodstained sands. Akhmen-hotep, Priest King of Ka-Sabar, watched the companies of enemy infantry find new strength as the terrible shadow swept over their heads. They surged forwards against the front ranks of the Bronze Host, chopping and stabbing fiercely at the giant warriors before them. Whether their new-found ferocity was born of courage, or terror, the king could not say.

  The chariot beneath Akhmen-hotep lurched backwards as the driver cursed and wrestled with his frenzied horses. The terrible, droning sound pulsed and sawed rhythmically around the struggling warriors, making it difficult to think. The priest king saw warriors in twos and threes racing past his chariot, running away from the fighting, back towards the sunlit oasis. His companies were wavering, their courage pressed to the limit by the sudden change of circumstance.

  Darkness engulfed the ranks of the enemy warriors and swept over the battle line. Men cried out in terror. More and more warriors in the rear ranks of Akhmen-hotep’s companies turned and fled rather than face the sorcerous shadow.

  The priest king cursed and looked around in growing desperation. The tide of blackness would sweep over him in seconds. He had to act quickly and regain control of his troops before their resolve collapsed entirely.

  His Ushabti bodyguards were already reacting, drawing their chariots around the priest king in a tighter defensive formation. Akhmen-hotep caught sight of his remaining messengers, standing just a few yards behind his chariot and eyeing the coming darkness with palpable dread.

  “Runners!” he called out, beckoning to them. “Here! Quickly!”

  The four boys gladly raced for the safety of the chariot. Akhmen-hotep held out his hand. “Up here! Grab hold,” he shouted above the din. As they climbed aboard, he stole a quick glance to the east, searching for Suseb’s company of chariots. If the front lines broke, the Lion and his men would have to countercharge Nagash’s warriors to give the infantry time to retreat and re-form their units. The chariots, however, were nowhere to be seen. The dust was rising once again, and all the priest king could see were vague shapes dashing back and forth through the haze.

  There was no time to waste. He had to issue orders to his men at once, or they would take matters into their own hands. The priest king tasted bile in the back of his throat as he searched for his trumpeter’s chariot. Thankfully, the man had kept his head and ordered his driver to remain close to Akhmen-hotep’s left.

  “Sound the call to withdraw!” the priest king shouted. Five yards away, the trumpeter nodded and put his bronze horn to his lips.

  The long, wailing note rang out across the battlefield, and then the tide of unearthly shadow swept over them.

  Akhmen-hotep felt a chill wind brush across his bare neck, and the air above him rustled and clattered with the whir of insectile wings. For a few moments, the priest king was blind as the spreading cloud blotted out the blazing sun, and a wave of childlike terror closed like a vice around his throat. Sounds became strangely magnified in the darkness. He heard the savage curses of his driver and the terrified panting of the horses over the clash of arms, and the shouting of warriors from the battleline dozens of yards distant. If anything, it sounded as though the fighting had redoubled its intensity, coming from every direction at once.

  The priest king’s eyes gradually adjusted to the change, and details of the battlefield took shape around him. The shroud of darkness above the warriors was in constant, seething motion, which allowed just enough light to seep through so that the plain was plunged into a sort of perpetual twilight. He could see the faint gleam of the spears and helmets of the Bronze Host, still struggling with the warriors of the Usurper. His companies were giving ground, slowly but surely, but the command to withdraw had restored some of their former spirit and discipline. Still, from what the priest king could see, there were scores upon scores of stragglers staggering across the battlefield. Akhmen-hotep took heart from the fact that many of them seemed to be heading back to their companies along the line, but others were milling about in apparent shock or confusion.

  All was not lost, the priest king reckoned. Off to the south, he could still see the oasis, bathed in Ptra’s light. If the host could fall back to the sunlight in good order, they could stand their ground and repel the Usurper’s sudden assault, but Akhmen-hotep knew they could not do it without help.

  The priest king glanced down at his messengers, and asked, “Which of you is the swiftest runner?” All four boys looked to one another. Finally, the smallest of them raised his hand.

  “They call me Dhekeru, great one,” he said, with a small amount of pride, “because I am as fleet as a mountain deer.” Akhmen-hotep smiled.

  “Dhekeru. That’s good.” He laid a broad hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Go and tell the priests to hurry north and join us. The gods must be with us if we are to prevail.”

  Dhekeru nodded. The young boy’s face was set in a determined scowl, but the priest king could feel the runner’s little body trembling in his grip. Akhmen-hotep gave the boy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and then Dhekeru was gone, leaping from the back of the chariot and dashing off into the gloom.

  The priest king straightened and tried to take stock of the battle. The battleline was a swirling mob of silhouettes just to the north. Experience told him that they had fallen back perhaps fifty yards so far, and were giving ground quickly. More screams of terror rang through the air, and confused shouts echoed up and down the line.

  Akhmen-hotep frowned. There were still more stragglers stumbling across the plain behind the retreating army. Where were they all coming from?

  Then, something heavy crashed against the side of the chariot to the priest king’s right, next to his bowman. The archer let out a startled shout and stumbled backwards as a figure tried to climb over the bronze-armoured side. Akhmen-hotep saw a bloody hand reach for the bowman and grab hold of his leather armour, and then, to the priest king’s horror, the figure hauled back with surprising strength and pulled the archer over the side.

  Horses screamed
in terror. Akhmen-hotep heard the driver curse fearfully and crack his whip, jolting the chariot forwards. The priest king staggered, groping for the khopesh by his side as the silhouetted figure dragged itself further over the rim of the chariot and reached out to him. A terrible stink emanated from the attacker, and Akhmen-hotep smelled bitter blood and ruptured bowels, like a freshly killed corpse.

  Then the figure drew nearer with a gurgling hiss, and the priest king peered through the gloom and realised that was exactly what it was.

  It was one of the Usurper’s tormented soldiers, clad only in a ragged, bloodstained kilt. Its chest was misshapen, having been crushed by the bronze-shod wheel of a chariot, and a spear point had torn open the warrior’s cheek before deflecting downward into the base of its neck, leaving a gaping, bloody hole. A flap of bloody skin dangled from the side of the creature’s pallid face, and the priest king could glimpse pale bone as its jaw gaped in another reptilian hiss.

  Before the creature could reach him, Akhmen-hotep’s Ushabti stepped between them with a liquid growl and a blur of his ritual blade. Bronze rang against bone and the undead monster fell back over the side of the chariot. Its severed head bounced once off the vehicle’s wooden bed and disappeared into the darkness.

  The sounds of battle raged all around them as the rest of Akhmen-hotep’s retinue found itself under attack. A chariot raced past, heading south, with a trio of clawing fiends hanging from its sides. The priest king realised that one of the creatures was wearing the leather and bronze harness of his own army.

  Akhmen-hotep choked back a cry of horror. Nagash’s unholy powers were far greater than he imagined. The dead rose from the bloodied earth to do his foul bidding!

  One of the messengers let out a terrified scream. The priest king whirled, but the boy was gone, snatched into the darkness. The other children wailed in terror, crowding towards the front of the chariot. At the priest king’s side, his devoted bodyguard stood with his feet wide apart and his ritual sword raised, ready to protect his master against any foe, living or otherwise.

  They heard the sound of splintering wood and the frenzied cries of maddened horses off to their left. Akhmen-hotep saw that one of the chariot drivers had lost control of his animals and the panicked beasts had turned too tightly, flipping the chariot onto its side. His stomach fell as he saw a flash of bronze cartwheel across the sand. It was the trumpeter’s signal-horn. More than a dozen walking corpses were converging on the broken chariot and its stunned occupants. They reached the chariot’s archer first, chopping his unconscious form to pieces with their stone axes.

  Akhmen-hotep heard the chariot’s driver shriek in terror, but then the Ushabti assigned to protect the trumpeter reared up among the undead warriors with a leonine roar and laid about them with his ritual sword. The giant warrior sent broken bodies spinning through the air with each sword-stroke, reaping a terrible harvest among the blasphemous throng, but more and more of the fallen warriors were closing in from all sides, brandishing bloodied weapons or reaching for the devoted bodyguard with grasping, claw-like hands.

  Akhmen-hotep fought to keep his balance as his chariot turned sharply about and began to head back in the direction of the oasis. He craned his neck, trying to see what was happening along the battleline. From what he could see, the withdrawal had ground to a halt, and his companies were being attacked from in front and behind, sowing deadly confusion through the ranks. The priest king clenched his fists in frustration; with his trumpeter gone, he had no way of communicating with his men. He thought of poor, brave Dhekeru, racing unarmed across a plain swarming with the walking dead, and his expression turned bleak.

  There was nothing more he could do. Their survival rested in the hands of the gods.

  * * * * *

  Back along the shadowed ridge, the air trembled with another seething, locust-like drone. Each of the silent tents surrounding the army’s central pavilion contained an upright sarcophagus of polished basalt, attended upon by a cowering knot of dull-eyed slaves. The rising drone spurred these wretched figures to fearful action, clawing at the heavy stone lids and pulling them aside.

  Serpentine hisses and cruel, hungry laughter welled up from the depths of the stone coffins, causing the slaves to fall upon their knees and press their faces to the rocky ground. Pale, black-veined hands grasped the rims of the sarcophagi, and one by one, a score of monsters who wore the shapes of men climbed from their cold beds and stepped out into the welcoming darkness.

  They moved with the arrogance of princes, who knew no law but their own. Their skin was white as chalk, and their lips and fingertips were bluish-black with the stain of old, dead blood. Rings of gold and silver glittered on their clawed fingers, and jewelled circlets rested upon their alabaster brows. All of them were garbed for war, with studded leather bindings covering their torsos and skullcaps of hammered bronze.

  One among them was taller than the rest, gaunt and vulture-like even in his fine armour and heavy, black cape. His tent stood at the right hand of the great pavilion, and he wore the ornate circlet of a vizier upon his bald head. The noble’s cheeks were sunken, emphasising his sharply angled cheekbones and pointed chin.

  Arkhan the Black looked out upon the battlefield and was pleased with what he saw. His lips drew back in a malevolent grin, revealing a mouthful of stained, pointed teeth. The Vizier of Khemri ran a blue-black tongue over those jagged points as he felt the unspoken commands of his master.

  “It shall be done,” he whispered in a thin, croaking voice. Then he beckoned to a messenger waiting in the shadow of the master’s pavilion. “Go to the Master of Skulls and tell him to begin,” he told the frightened boy. Then he turned and strode swiftly to a waiting squadron of heavy horsemen formed up on the slope before his tent.

  Horses and riders alike hung their heads and trembled at the undead lord’s approach. Arkhan’s mount was a half-mad black mare, branded with sorcerous glyphs that bound it to his will. It rolled its eyes fearfully at its master’s approach, tossing its head and clashing its chisel-like teeth as the warrior climbed gracefully into the saddle. The vizier turned to his men, smiling cruelly at the way they flinched beneath his stare.

  “The Bronze Host has been laid against the anvil,” he growled. “Now comes the hammer.”

  Arkhan pointed a clawed finger at his trumpeter, and said, “Signal the cavalry to wheel right. We will charge their left flank and put them to flight.”

  The Usurper’s vizier drew a wicked-looking bronze scimitar from its scabbard and put his heels to his horse’s flanks. It lurched forwards with a tormented squeal, and the ranks of heavy horsemen followed suit. All along the ridge-line, Nagash’s immortal champions took charge of their warriors and heeded the wailing call of the trumpet.

  Arkhan’s messenger raced between the funereal tents and picked his way across the rocky summit until he disappeared behind the ridge’s northern face, out of sight of the battling armies. There, along the opposite slope, waited a dozen wheeled war machines built of heavy cedar logs and ensorcelled bronze nails.

  A single, dust-covered tent waited beside the ancient trade road, which ran squarely between the line of war machines and their silent crews. A short, broad-shouldered man with small, dark eyes set in a round, jowly face emerged from the tent at the boy’s approach, and replied to the vizier’s message with a single grunt. He was a master engineer, chosen by Nagash to master the secrets of the fearsome machines as depicted in ancient manuscripts looted from a necropolis in far-off Zandri. For his success, Nagash tore out the man’s tongue so that he could not share what he had learned with anyone else.

  The Master of Skulls dismissed the messenger and walked up the road. The crews of the war machines went to work at once. Some bent to the task of cranking back the throwing arm of each catapult, while others turned to the dozen large wicker baskets and pulled away their lids, revealing heaped piles of leering skulls marked with clusters of arcane glyphs.

  Within minutes, the catapult ar
ms had been locked back, and their leather baskets filled with their grisly ammunition. When all was ready, the engineer raised his hand and let out a wordless, ululating cry.

  Flickering green fire burst from each of the catapult baskets, and the chief of each crew hurriedly pulled back on the lanyards. The catapult arms banged against their braces, and hundreds of fiery, shrieking skulls streaked through the darkness over the ridge.

  Akhmen-hotep brought his khopesh down upon the skull of one of his fallen soldiers as the corpse-thing tried to claw its way onto his chariot. The enchanted bronze sword sheared away the top of the warrior’s head, splattering brain matter onto the king’s bare shins. The thing collapsed, sliding from the back of the chariot, while the king’s bodyguard hacked apart two more that were trying to climb aboard from the other side.

  The king and his retinue had been retreating steadily across the plain, hoping to find the city priests making their way north from the edge of the oasis. Corpses assailed them from all sides. Many were crushed beneath the chariot’s wheels, but others tried to leap upon the backs of the horses or get inside the chariot. The last two messenger boys had been dragged away by the undead creatures, and the horses were staggering from exhaustion and scores of minor wounds. Most of his Ushabti were still with him, as far as he could see, but they were almost half a mile away from the struggling army, and still there was no sign of Ka-Sabar’s holy men.

  Suddenly, the priest king heard a strange, piping chorus of unearthly cries coming from the direction of the ridge. Akhmen-hotep looked back the way they’d come, and saw a flickering rain of fiery green orbs arcing down onto the struggling companies.

  The hail of screaming skulls scattered widely over the clashing armies, falling among friend and foe alike, but where the warriors of Khemri were inured to their horror, the Bronze Host was not. The grisly missiles exploded among their ranks, showering them with blazing fragments and filling their ears with shrieks of agony and despair. Beset on all sides by warriors living and dead, including the bloodied corpses of their kinsmen, the Bronze Host had been pushed far beyond the limits of its courage. Cries of horror went up from the men, and the embattled companies began to disintegrate as the warriors turned their backs upon the foe and ran for their lives.