—<TEN>—

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.

The Lord of Masks counted slowly to five and then twisted the needle once more. The man sagged back against the wooden frame with a ragged groan, his arms and legs trembling. He was a leather worker, according to his agents; by his lean, vulpine features and the dark, weathered cast to his skin, Ushoran reckoned he was from the desert tribes of the far west. A great many of them had turned up in the city over the last few years, seeking whatever work they could find in the Traders’ Quarter. Most turned to thievery—something the desert nomads knew well—but this one had been carrying a leather satchel and proper tools when he’d been snatched from the street by Ushoran’s men. Perhaps he’d lingered too long in his shop, finishing a belt or a set of fine boots for a caravan master or a ship’s captain, or had decided to stop by one of the local wine shops and lost track of the time. Or perhaps he was new to the city, and ignorant of the risk of being caught out on the streets after dark. These days, most people knew that you didn’t tarry in the Traders’ Quarter or down by the docks after nightfall—not if you valued your life.

Ushoran paused for a few moments, listening carefully to the man’s laboured breathing. There was an art to gauging how much real pain another person was suffering and how lucid they were from one moment to the next. When he judged that the time was right, he circled around to the front of the wooden frame and took the man’s narrow chin in his hand. Ushoran was pleased to see the man flinch at his touch. He raised the leather worker’s chin until he could gaze into the man’s eyes.

“How long this lasts is entirely up to you,” Ushoran said. “You understand? Answer my questions and the pain will end.”

The man on the frame drew a hitching breath. A thin whine escaped his lips. “Don’t—please… I don’t know,” he whispered, the words almost too faint to hear.

Ushoran’s fingers tightened on the man’s jaw. “No, no,” he said slowly, as though he were a tutor with an exceptionally slow pupil. “You’re a clever fellow. Think. This man has been seen in the Traders’ Quarter before; he is tall and broad of shoulder, and has a grip like a blacksmith. Likely he was dressed like a commoner—even, perhaps, like a beggar—but he would have been handsome and well spoken, like a noble. Such a one would stand out from the crowd, yes? You may have only glimpsed him in passing. Just tell us where and when. That is all.”

The leather worker blinked at Ushoran, his dark eyes wide and unfocussed. He groaned, a sound torn from the depths of his soul. Tears of frustration trickled from the corners of his eyes. “Please,” he begged. “I don’t know. I… I swear it! Why… why won’t you believe m-me?”

Ushoran sighed in mock disappointment. The fool was too proud to lie, even to spare himself further suffering. He would provide hours more entertainment before his young heart gave out. Careful to conceal any trace of pleasure, the Lord of Masks turned to glance at the dais.

“He is stubborn, great one,” Ushoran said to the apparition seated upon the ancient wooden throne. The Lord of Masks shrugged. “On the other hand, it’s possible that he is telling the truth. Shall we release him?”

Neferata studied the weeping man with the eerie, serpent-like stillness of an immortal. She had not worn her golden mask since the night of Alcadizzar’s betrayal and her pale, otherworldly face was as cold and pitiless as the desert night. Likewise, the eternal queen disdained the gleaming finery of the temple; her white silken robe was dingy and tattered, stained at sleeve and hem with layers of grime and spots of old blood. In truth, she looked like a corpse freshly dug from its tomb, her unblinking eyes brimming with hate for the cursed world of men.

Ushoran watched her fingers slowly tense upon the arms of the throne. Long, curved claws scraped faintly over the priceless wood. A slender figure in a ragged priestess’ robe stirred at the queen’s feet. Like Neferata, the woman was as pale as alabaster, her cheeks smeared with dirt and dried blood. Sensing the change in her mistress’ mood, the young immortal fixed Ushoran with a feral, catlike gaze and bared her fangs in a silent hiss. The Lord of Masks stiffened at the challenge, only just managing to refrain from baring his own teeth at the whelp in response. As Neferata’s hatred of the mortal world had grown since the betrayal, so too had her distrust of her fellow immortals. Now she surrounded herself only with creatures of her own creation—women who had come as orphans to the temple and had risen through the ranks to become its first high priestesses. Their will and self-determination crushed long ago by Neferata’s ruthless mental control, they were little better than animals, but their loyalty to the queen was absolute.

Lost in her dreams of vengeance, Neferata had withdrawn almost entirely from the affairs of the kingdom. In the wake of Alcadizzar’s escape she had gone out into the streets herself in search of him; screams would echo from the Travellers’ Quarter or the refugee slums in the dead of night and in the morning there would be another gruesome spectacle for the City Guard to find.

Wild tales of a savage, flesh-eating spirit gripped the populace. For the first time in centuries, terrified citizens flocked to the decrepit temples of Neru and Ptra, begging the startled priests for deliverance. When they proved powerless to halt the slaughter, the city nobles decided to take matters into their own hands. They pointed to the squalid population of immigrants in the western part of the city, accusing the former desert dwellers of unleashing a curse upon them all. Lost in the hysteria was the simple fact that the victims of Neferata’s reign of terror had almost exclusively been immigrants themselves; the citizens had rioted, and the slums had burned for three straight days. It was only thanks to the sea breeze and the spine of hills that cut across Lahmia from north to south that the fire was kept from consuming the entire city. The air in the palace had reeked of smoke and burning flesh for a week. Afterwards, Lord Ankhat managed to persuade Neferata to restrain herself, but only after assuring her that the search for the prince would continue without pause. As a result, Ushoran had been allowed—nay encouraged—to indulge his secret appetites to a degree he had never before imagined possible. For every victim snatched from the street to answer the queen’s relentless questions, three more found their way into his private houses of amusement.

At the foot of the gore-spattered dais, Lord Ankhat watched the spectacle with sour disapproval. He was the only principal of the Deathless Court who still paid any attention to affairs of state, managing the city and its affairs through a complex web of ministers and noblemen. Neferata’s obsession with the young prince had badly strained her relationship with Ankhat, once her staunchest ally in the court. He kept his own counsel for the most part these days, making state decisions by fiat and abandoning all pretence of consulting with the queen. The once affable aristocrat had grown cold and aloof, eyeing everyone around him with a mix of suspicion and arrogant disdain.

Perhaps it was just the passage of time, Ushoran mused. With every year our powers increase, he thought, as do our appetites. We grow ever more territorial, ever more jealous of our prerogatives. Before long we will have grown too hungry and too paranoid to share the city between ourselves, and what then?

Ankhat folded his arms and glared at the luckless fool on the rack. “This is ridiculous,” he spat. “Doesn’t anyone mark the passage of time anymore? It’s not been five weeks since he’s been gone, or even five months. It’s been five years. No one’s seen or heard from him since. For all we know, his bones are lying in a shallow grave somewhere on the Golden Plain.”

Neferata fixed Ankhat with a smouldering glare. Ushoran cleared his throat. “The facts do not support this,” he interjected. “Rasetra has made no inquiries about the prince’s wellbeing since his disappearance. Clearly, he has been in contact with them somehow—”

“Then where is he, spymaster?” Ankhat shot back. “Khemri still lacks a king. You think he’s taken up work serving tables in the Travellers’ Quarter?” He turned and glared back at Neferata. “What in all the world could be more important to him than the crown of the Living City?”

Ushoran turned his attention to his victim in an attempt to conceal his unease. Ankhat was right—Alcadizzar ought to be in Khemri now, well on his way to restoring the city’s wealth and power. The fact that he hadn’t claimed the throne filled the immortal with a growing sense of dread.

“Alcadizzar is here,” Neferata declared, in a voice as cold and hard as stone. “I know it.” She leaned forwards, hands gripping the arms of the throne. “Ask him again,” she hissed at Ushoran. “Strip away his flesh until he speaks the truth. He will give up his secrets soon enough. They always do.”

Ushoran bowed to the queen and turned his attention to a table lined with gleaming tools. Behind him, he heard Ankhat snarl in disgust; there was a gust of icy wind as the immortal took his leave.

The Lord of Masks selected a long, serrated blade from the table and inspected its edge. The man on the rack started to thrash weakly against his restraints.

Neferata was right. Eventually the miserable wretch would talk. He would say whatever it took to make the agony stop, and leave the queen with yet another wild rumour to pursue. The orgy of blood and pain would continue.

As Ushoran returned to his labours, he silently prayed that the lost prince would never be heard from again.

The slow-moving caravan raised a pall of churning dust that stretched for half a mile down the arrow-straight course of the great trade road that travelled westwards along the Golden Plain. It glowed reddish-ochre in the sullen light of the setting sun, visible for leagues to the north and south.

Any bandit worth his salt quickly learned how to gauge the size and speed of a caravan based upon the trail of dust it left behind. This one was plodding along at barely more than a mile per hour; that meant laden wagons and slow, stolid oxen. Half a mile of dust wasn’t much—the huge spice caravans that left the city every three months raised a trail that could stretch for up to a league or more, depending on the strength of the wind. Alcadizzar reckoned there were perhaps a dozen wagons, all told, plus outriders ahead and to the flanks. They’d left the city late in the day—far later than was wise—so by the time night fell they would be well beyond the reach of the Lahmian forts on the eastern edge of the plain. Easy pickings for a bandit gang that knew its trade; either the caravan master had taken leave of his senses, or there was more going on here than met the eye.

Nawat ben Hazar did not share in Alcadizzar’s concern. The bandit leader fairly rocked in the saddle with anticipation, a gap-toothed grin stretching from ear to ear. “Not long now,” he said, breaking into a wheezing chuckle. “They’ll hit the caravan just before sunset, when the fools are thinking of nothing but making camp and drinking a little wine.” He shifted his lanky body and glanced at Alcadizzar, who walked his horse just a pace or two behind Nawat and to his right. The bandit leader’s dark eyes glittered beneath shaggy grey eyebrows. He tapped the side of his narrow nose with a grimy fingertip. “Mark my words, khutuf. We’ll have a bit of gold and meat for our bellies tonight.”

The prince nodded absently, his eyes still fixed on the drifting ribbon of dust along the northern horizon. The bandits knew him as Ubaid, a former soldier and exile from Rasetra, but Nawat called him—and any other man not descended from the tribes of the Great Desert—simply khutuf. In the dialect of the tribes, the name meant “house dog”, and referred to the pampered pets of merchants and other fat, indolent city dwellers. Nawat never let his men forget that he was of a different breed than the rest of them. He was a nazir, a desert lion, who could trace his lineage back to the great chieftains of the bani-al-Akhtar, the fiercest of the desert clans. He was as lean and as tough as a strip of rawhide, his dark skin weathered and wrinkled by years of exposure to the unforgiving sun. Though he wore simple cotton robes of Lahmian cut—plundered from a spice trader’s chest and now stained a uniform brown by the dust of the road—the wide leather belt of a desert horseman circled his waist. Its cracked surface was tooled with precise notches that signified the battles he’d fought as a tribal warrior, and the scores of men he’d killed.

Alcadizzar had no reason to doubt Nawat’s claims. The bandit leader wore a fine pair of ivory-hilted daggers tucked into his belt and carried a sleek, curved sword of the type favoured by the tribes. The old bandit sat his stolen horse with the ease of a man born to the saddle, which was more than Alcadizzar could say for himself. But he doubted that Nawat had been exiled from his tribe for loving the chieftain’s daughter, as the man so often boasted. He suspected it had more to do with the telltale black stain of lotus root on the bandit’s few remaining teeth.

For certain, Nawat’s days of glory were far behind him. His gang, such as it was, consisted of barely a score of hungry-looking men and women, clad in a motley assortment of grimy rags and bits of finer, recently stolen garb. Most of the band struggled along on foot, while Nawat and the best-armed men of the gang sat upon lean, dispirited horses stolen from the scenes of previous raids. Most of the bandits carried little more than short clubs of knotty wood or dull-edged bronze knives; none wore anything resembling useful armour. The gang had no bows or spears—not even so much as a shepherd’s simple leather sling. They were far and away the most pathetic bunch of would-be raiders that Alcadizzar had ever seen, surviving off the leavings that larger, stronger gangs left behind, but they were also the only outlaws on the Golden Plain desperate enough to take him in.

Five years ago, Alcadizzar’s only thought had been to escape from the City of the Dawn and warn Nehekhara of the evil that lurked in the depths of the Temple of Blood. Ironically, it was only by virtue of Neferata’s terrible elixir that he had managed to survive the long drop to the palace courtyard; from there, his knowledge of the royal compound had allowed him to evade the guards and slip quietly into the city proper. By then, alarm gongs were clashing stridently within the palace, and startled City Guardsmen were prowling the early morning streets with cudgels in hand. The prince had spent his first day of freedom huddled inside an enormous ceremonial urn at the back of a potter’s storage shed, his body trembling and his mind numb with shock as he struggled to make sense of everything he’d learned.

Neferata had responded swiftly and decisively to Alcadizzar’s escape. Over the course of the day the search for him had intensified, and on several occasions he could hear the potter and his son arguing bitterly with City Guardsmen who came prowling through his shop. The prince tried to treat it as just another of the countless exercises that Haptshur, his battlefield tutor, had subjected him to. You’ve been trapped deep in enemy territory with nothing but the robes on your back and your foes are hunting you. You must find a way to escape and return to your people.

That was far easier said than done, of course. Alcadizzar had no weapons, no gold—not even sandals for his feet. Though his robes were now as filthy and torn as a beggar’s, the rich, white silk would attract the attention of every watchman in the city. And it was safe to assume that his description was being circulated around the docks and at the city gates; there might even be a reward offered for his capture. To make matters worse, his nearest allies were in Rasetra, hundreds of leagues away. Even if he made it out of the city, he would still have a long and gruelling journey to reach the city of his people.

By the end of the first day, Alcadizzar had come to the conclusion that he would not be getting out of Lahmia any time soon. He would have to bide his time and gather resources while he waited for the search to eventually subside. That night, he slipped from the potter’s shed and climbed silently onto the artisan’s roof where freshly cleaned robes had been laid out to dry. Alcadizzar took a set of the son’s robes, silently vowing to repay the family later, and then slipped into the crowded streets. The stained white robes were left in an alley deep inside the Travellers’ Quarter, where he hoped they would convince the City Guard that he was trying to slip out of Lahmia with one of the many outbound merchant caravans. Instead, the prince made his way down to the teeming districts around the docks and looked for ways to earn some coin.

For nearly eight months, Alcadizzar, prince of Rasetra and would-be King of Khemri, lived like a harbour rat among Lahmia’s busy docks. He looted and he stole; he gambled on games of dice and drank sour beer in reeking alehouses no City Guardsman dared enter. He killed his first man in a vicious, back-alley brawl, when a gang of sailors tried to pressgang him onto their ship. For a time he worked as hired muscle for one of the most notorious brothels in the Red Silk District, and there fell into the company of a gang of jewel thieves who preyed upon the old noble families who lived in the shadow of the royal palace. That association had ended in blood and betrayal on a moonless night in early spring; Alcadizzar had escaped with nothing more than a handful of copper coins and a dying woman’s kiss. She’d been his first love, and she’d nearly been the death of him.

Finally, the prince judged that his time had come. He was certain that Neferata was still looking for him, but her attention was still fixed on the caravans and the Travellers’ Quarter. The guards at the city gates had slipped back into their daily routine, and his description was changed from the night of his escape. He was much thinner now and his features were hidden beneath a full, black beard. Dressed in faded desert robes and laden with a leather pack filled with food, spare clothing and other supplies, he passed through the eastern gate in the middle of a torrential afternoon rainstorm. The guardsmen, scowling from the doorway of the gatehouse, waved him through without so much as a second glance.

But the prince soon learned that escaping the city was only the first of many challenges that lay between him and distant Rasetra. Beyond the watch-forts at the eastern end of the plain the land was wild and lawless, infested with roving gangs of outlaws that preyed on unwary travellers. His hopes of falling in with an eastbound caravan were quickly dashed, as the paranoid merchants and their hired guards feared that he might be a spy for the caravan raiders. Alone and on foot, Alcadizzar’s skills were tested to the utmost over the next few months as he struggled his way across the plain. He was forced to fight for his life on more than one occasion, but his training and the lasting potency of Neferata’s elixir saw him through.

The road became less dangerous but no less easy once he had left the Golden Plain behind. Alcadizzar made his way to Lybaras, thinking that Rasetra’s ancient allies would lend him aid, but the prince found the City of Scholars in a sad and decrepit state. The famous collegiums were all but deserted and the Palace of the Scholar-Kings was closed even to its citizens. Alcadizzar lingered there for almost a month, waiting in vain for an audience with King Pashet, but the royal viziers refused to even listen to him. In the end, he left Lybaras as road-weary and penniless as he’d been when he’d arrived.

Finally, almost a full year and a half after his escape from the Temple of Blood, Alcadizzar passed through the formidable gates of Rasetra, the warlike city of his people. The prince was pleased to see that the city prospered under the rule of his younger brother, Asar. This time, he knew better than to approach the palace directly. He was sure that Lahmia had agents in the city and they were certain to be on the lookout for him. Instead, he made inquiries in the market, and that evening he found his way to the home of his uncle Khenti.

Though Khenti was an old man now, his strength gone and his vision fading, he recognised Alcadizzar at once. The prince was welcomed with tears of joy. Later, when he had told Khenti of what he’d seen inside the temple, his uncle wasted no time in arranging a secret meeting with Asar inside the palace.

Accompanied by Khenti, Alcadizzar was ushered into the king’s privy council chamber, where he met his younger brother for the very first time. Though Asar did not possess his brother’s extraordinary physique and magnetic charisma, the kinship between the two could not be denied. Asar welcomed his brother warmly, and over goblets of strong southern wine Alcadizzar told Asar his horrifying tale.

This had been the moment that the prince had been waiting months for. Sitting in the filth of Lahmia’s back-alleys, he’d envisioned his brother’s face lighting up with righteous rage as he learned of Neferata’s crimes. Swift messengers would be sent across the length and breadth of the land, spreading the news and summoning their armies to war. Alcadizzar would return to the City of Dawn as a conqueror, at the head of a vast army made up of warriors from every city in Nehekhara.

But Alcadizzar was to be disappointed. The King of Rasetra listened to the prince’s tale, his expression thoughtful. When Alcadizzar was finished, Asar took a long sip of wine, and then gave his brother a frank stare.

“Where is your proof?” the king asked him.

Nawat altered their course as the sun sank behind the hills to the west, aiming the bandit gang towards the distant trade road. If the old raider’s instincts were correct—and Alcadizzar had to admit, Nawat was rarely wrong—then the caravan would be attacked just at sunset, while they were busy making camp. Timing was critical; if they arrived too early, they risked walking into the middle of a battle. Too late, and they would need torches to pick their way through the caravan’s remains, which meant they would likely miss what few valuables remained.

Alcadizzar shifted impatiently in the saddle, his hand falling to the hilt of the sword at his hip. It had been the sword of his uncle Khenti, a heavy, bronze khopesh that had spilled the blood of countless lizardmen in its time. Asar had tried to provide him with a fine gelding from the royal stables and a suit of bronze scale to aid him on his mission, but Alcadizzar knew such things would attract unwelcome attention on the Golden Plain. Instead, he’d gone to Rasetra’s horse market and purchased a sturdy Numasi mare, and then plied a desert trader with gold to part with one of his personal possessions.

The rakh-hajib, or raider’s robe, was a heavy cotton outer garment reinforced with bronze discs sewn into the inner lining to cover the wearer’s vitals. It wasn’t as good as proper armour, but it was proof against arrows, spears and knives. Best of all, it was discreet; he could not risk appearing too well equipped, or the bandits on the plain would think he was a spy for Lahmia’s City Guard. Mistrust and paranoia were the only constants on the trade road leading to the City of the Dawn.

The same could be said for Nehekhara in general, Alcadizzar had learned. That night at the palace, Asar had laid out the political situation among the great cities. Though there was a great deal of resentment and discontent towards Lahmia, the centuries-old policies of King Lamashizzar and later, Queen Neferata had been so effective at playing the other cities against one another that none of them were strong enough to challenge the Lahmians directly. Even Rasetra, which had clawed its way back from the brink of ruin after the war against Nagash and had rebuilt its powerful army, still lacked the resources for a protracted war against the Lahmians. And though many of the great cities now possessed iron weapons and armour that were the equal of Lahmia’s, none of them had a counter for the fearsome dragon powder that Lamashizzar’s army had used to destroy the Usurper’s army almost five hundred years ago. Not even the Lybaran scholar-priests had succeeded in unravelling the secrets of the mysterious eastern powder, and no one knew how much of it the City of the Dawn possessed. As Alcadizzar knew firsthand, the Lahmians guarded their secrets jealously.

Of course, a coalition of armies would almost certainly triumph against the Lahmians, but there was too much ambition and too little trust among the other cities to make such an alliance possible. Of the great cities, only three were strong enough to present themselves as possible rivals to Lahmia’s power—Rasetra in the east, plus Zandri and Ka-Sabar in the west—but none were willing to take the first step and risk standing alone in the face of Lahmian reprisal. It would take something truly portentous and terrible to persuade the rival kings to put aside their ambitions and come together in a common cause against Lahmia. Alcadizzar’s discovery was just such a revelation—but only if it could be proven beyond a doubt. Without proof, the other kings were just as likely to suspect that it was nothing more than a Rasetran ploy to trick them into a ruinous war.

Asar had made it clear that he believed every word of the prince’s story and vowed to send agents to uncover proof of Neferata’s crimes—but Alcadizzar knew that such efforts were doomed from the start. No stranger to the city would stand a chance of penetrating the palace compound and slipping undetected into the temple—and none of the temple’s high priestesses could be persuaded to betray their mistress’ secrets. That left only one possible alternative. If the great cities needed proof of Lahmia’s hidden evil, then Alcadizzar would have to obtain it himself.

He had remained as his uncle’s guest for many months, formulating his plans, then slipped quietly from the city amid the guards of a merchant caravan bound for Lybaras. Six months later he found himself, once again, friendless and alone, upon the lawless expanse of the Golden Plain.

Alcadizzar had thought that slipping back into Lahmia would have been a simple matter. It had been years since his escape; for all that the rest of the world knew, he might as well have been dead. But Neferata still hadn’t given up looking for him; if anything, her search had turned far darker and more terrible than before. The city docks and the poorer districts lay under a constant pall of dread. The streets were all but deserted after dark, because people were disappearing almost every night and were never seen again. Informers were everywhere, searching for men who matched his description. The City Guard had tried to detain him at the west gate; when no amount of gold would dissuade them, he’d been forced to draw his sword and fight his way out. Mounted riders had scoured the trade road for weeks afterwards, searching for him. He’d only managed to escape by fleeing deep into the abandoned farmland, where the bandits held sway.

He’d known from his early days inside the city that there were two kinds of bandits on the Golden Plain. There were desperate, pitiful folk like Nawat’s band of cutthroats, and then there were the descendants of the desert tribes who had migrated there in the years after the war against the Usurper. Nagash’s armies had shattered the once-proud tribes, and the loss of their patron god Khsar had forced them to abandon the burning sands that had sheltered them for centuries. In those days, Lahmia had been the richest of all the great cities, and caravans journeyed there from as far away as Zandri to partake in the exotic goods of the distant east. Where there was wealth, there was banditry, and the desert tribes were superlative caravan raiders. They struck like lightning out of the scrub forests that now grew wild across the plain, taking what they pleased and vanishing before the City Guard could respond. There were also many former desert dwellers living inside Lahmia as well, eking out a miserable existence in the city slums. The Lahmians regarded them with suspicion and thinly veiled hostility, suspecting them of spying for the raiders out on the plain.

Alcadizzar saw at once that the desert tribesmen had the potential of becoming powerful allies against the Lahmians, but they were a clannish and secretive bunch at the best of times. He had spent a year on the plain trying to earn their trust, but to no avail. When Nawat had agreed to accept him into his gang, Alcadizzar had joined up in the hopes that the old raider might still have some friends within the tribes, but if he did, Nawat refused to speak of them.

The prince suppressed an irritated sigh. Another dead end, he thought, watching the gang slink across a wide, stony field that had once grown corn and wheat for nearby Lahmia. He was better off on his own, he reckoned. Perhaps it would be easier to move about inside the city now. It had been another full year—surely Neferata was growing tired of the search.

Just then came the distant, skirling cry of a horn, off to the north. Nawat sat straight in his saddle, listening then nodded in satisfaction. “It’s begun,” he said to the gang. “They’re a little early. We should pick up the pace a bit.”

The old raider nudged his horse into a faster walk and the bandits limped along in his wake as best they could. Alcadizzar touched his heels to his mount and she responded at once, breaking into an easy, ground-eating trot. He searched the darkening sky above the road where he knew the caravan to be. After a few moments, he frowned. “No signal arrow,” he said, half to himself.

Nawat turned to the prince. “What’s that?”

Alcadizzar gestured in the direction of the road. They were less than a mile away now, their movements concealed by a line of low, wooded hills. “The caravan hasn’t called for help.”

The old raider straightened in the saddle. Every caravan within easy riding distance of the Lahmian watch-forts kept a bow and a pitch-soaked arrow close to hand, in case of attack. A fire arrow shot skywards would have a troop of Lahmian cavalry riding to their aid within minutes. Nawat rubbed his chin. “Maybe the arrow failed to light,” he mused. “It’s been known to happen.”

“You think so?” the prince asked, sounding dubious.

Nawat shrugged. “What else?”

They rode onwards in tense silence for a bit longer, drawing closer to the base of the hills. A horn sounded again—two short notes, then a long one, repeated in quick succession. Alcadizzar stiffened. He knew that sequence all too well. Moments later, another horn answered, perhaps a league to the west.

“Those are cavalry signals,” Alcadizzar told Nawat. “The caravan had a troop of horsemen trailing them.”

“Where the dust trail from the wagons would hide their presence.” Nawat muttered a curse and spat into the dust. “When did the khutuf get so clever?”

Alcadizzar could hear other sounds coming from the far side of the hill now: the faint clatter of blades and the shrill, woman-like shriek of a dying horse. The caravan had been nothing but bait, drawing the raiders into a deadly ambush. The prince thought quickly, considering his options. He reached down and loosened his sword in its sheath.

Nawat cursed again and turned his horse about. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he snarled to his gang. “Back to camp, and quickly. If the Lahmians catch us—”

Suddenly, the old raider’s mount shied sideways as Alcadizzar spurred his horse to a gallop and charged up the wooded hillside.

“Ubaid!” Nawat called after him. “What in the seven hells are you doing?”

The long-legged Numasi mare lunged up the slope in graceful bounds. Alcadizzar gave the horse its head, letting it find its own way amid the gnarled, spiky trees. The sounds of battle grew louder as he reached the hill’s summit and plunged down the other side. He drew the heavy, bronze sword with a graceful sweep of his arm and tried to catch glimpses of the battle unfolding along the road below.

Alcadizzar could see seven or eight wagons—wide-bodied, wooden affairs with four wheels and high, wicker sides. Half a dozen archers stood in each one, drawing back yard-long reed arrows and loosing them at the swift-moving horsemen circling in the open ground north of the road. The desert raiders were armed with quivers of bronze-tipped javelins and short, recurved bows made of polished horn; they drew and fired on the move, sending broad-headed arrows thudding into the wagons’ flanks. But instead of plunging through the painted wicker they stuck fast, or the shafts broke from the impact. No doubt the wicker was a screen, concealing a wall of wooden shields that protected the archers to just above the waist.

The bodies of riders and horses alike littered the ground before the wagons and the gaps between them. A favoured tactic of the desert raiders was to race in among the wagons and strike down their drivers with a few well-placed javelins. The Lahmians had waited until the raiders were virtually in their midst before springing their trap, cutting down the first wave of raiders at point-blank range. The rest had drawn up short in the killing ground north of the road, where they offered more targets for the swift-firing bowmen.

The caravan guards—Lahmian soldiers clad in the motley gear of hired blades—had withdrawn behind the wagons as soon as the attack had begun, and now they were making short work of the wounded raiders who’d had their mounts shot out from under them during the first charge. Alcadizzar caught sight of a dozen of these soldiers surrounding a large knot of dead horses and their riders. As he watched, a lean, robed figure darted up from behind one of the fallen mounts and flung a javelin at one of the Lahmians. The soldier screamed and fell, clutching at the shaft protruding from his chest. Arrows hissed through the air, but the raider had already ducked back down out of sight and the shafts passed harmlessly overhead.

A shout went up from the raiders north of the road. Alcadizzar watched in surprise as a dozen of them broke from the group and charged the line of wagons. Horse-bows twanged; one of the Lahmian archers pitched over backwards with an arrow in his eye. The raiders closed the distance swiftly, their mounts fairly gliding over the stony field. They plunged fearlessly into a storm of arrow fire. Horses screamed and plunged to the ground; their riders leapt free, only to be shot in turn. Only two of the brave riders made it past the wagons, hurling javelins at their tormentors as they raced by. Alcadizzar watched them rein in for a moment on the other side of the line, their heads turning this way and that as though searching for something. One of the riders fell a second later with an arrow in his throat; the second man caught sight of the mound of dead horses that the Lahmians had surrounded, and spurred his horse towards them with a cry of challenge. Three arrows struck the man in quick succession, piercing him in the leg and chest. Still, he struggled onwards, driving his mount forwards, until another pair of arrows struck him in the side and sent him plunging to the ground. The raider’s horse came to a stop, its flanks heaving—but then a whistle caused its ears to perk up. At once, it started to trot towards where the stranded raider was hiding, but was brought down by a well-placed Lahmian arrow.

Now Alcadizzar understood why the desert raiders hadn’t simply withdrawn as soon as the ambush had been sprung. Their chieftain had been brought down in the first charge and was now trapped by the Lahmians among the bodies of his retainers. Honour demanded that they rescue him, or die in the attempt.

The Lahmian soldiers pushed forwards, tightening the noose around the desert chieftain. To the west, Alcadizzar could hear the faint thunder of hooves. The cavalry would arrive in moments and then the raiders would have no choice but to withdraw; the chieftain’s fate would be sealed.

There was no time to think. Alcadizzar raced down the slope, angling his course towards the downed chieftain. With the latest rescue attempt having failed, the Lahmian archers had turned their attention northwards once again. He might succeed where the gallant raiders had failed.

The prince broke from the concealing woods at a full gallop, his horse kicking up a cloud of dust as she raced across the level ground towards the encircling soldiers. The Lahmians didn’t see him at first. Alcadizzar crossed the intervening distance in the space of a few heartbeats. By the time one of the soldiers on the far side of the circle caught sight of him and shouted a warning, it was already too late.

Alcadizzar plunged into the circle of warriors, his bronze sword flashing. Blood spattered in a wide arc as he split one soldier’s helmet and carved into the skull beneath. The prince jerked his blade free with a bloodthirsty shout and struck another man in the shoulder, the sword cutting through the warrior’s leather armour and shattering his collarbone. Screams rent the air; Alcadizzar spurred his mount forwards, leaping over the bodies of horses and men. He caught sight of the chieftain, hunched down next to his dead stallion, a sword and dagger clenched in his bloody hands.

The prince leaned down, extending his left arm. The desert chieftain’s face was hidden behind a chequered headscarf, but his dark eyes glinted fiercely as he gripped Alcadizzar’s forearm and swung easily onto the back of his horse. There were shouts all around them as the Lahmians surged forwards; with a cry, Alcadizzar spurred his mount once again—not northwards, into the teeth of the enemy bowmen, or southwards, towards the wooded hill but west, down the length of the caravan and in the direction of the oncoming Lahmian cavalry.

Arrows hissed through the air as the wagons flashed by. An arrow struck Alcadizzar in the left side, but the point failed to penetrate the rings of mail sewn into his raider’s coat. Only a few of the archers could fire on him at any one time, and the speed of his horse made him a difficult target.

In less than a minute he reached the last wagon in line and was galloping out into the open. Shouts rose behind him and he expected a fusillade of arrows to rain down on him, but just then the Lahmian cavalry arrived on the scene, their yellow silk standards flapping in the wind. He charged full into their midst, dashing straight down the column of charging riders. The Lahmian archers had no choice but to hold their fire, and within moments Alcadizzar had vanished in the churning dust cloud kicked up by the cavalry troop.

A fist pounded at the prince’s shoulder and laughter boomed in his ear. “That was boldly done!” the chieftain said. Alcadizzar glanced over his shoulder and saw that the raider had pulled aside his headscarf. He was a young man, no more than twenty-five or so, with a handsome, tanned face and a brilliant smile that was more than a little mad.

“I am Faisr al-Hashim, of the bani-al-Hashim,” the young man said. “And I am in your debt, stranger. Ask of me anything, and it is yours.”

A half-mile down the trade road, the prince reined in his mount. In the distance, the Lahmian cavalry were chasing the rest of the bandits northwards. Alcadizzar glanced back at the chieftain. Nawat and his rabble were forgotten; this was the opportunity he’d been looking for.

“Anything?”

The chieftain laughed again, drunk from his close brush with death. “Anything, upon my honour! What is your heart’s desire?”

The prince smiled. “I wish to ride with the bani-al-Hashim.”