—<FIFTEEN>—

The Crown of Nagash

Nagashizzar, in the 105th year of Djaf the Terrible
(-1222 Imperial Reckoning)

The great chamber had been carved from the heart of the mountain with a single purpose in mind. Shaped purely by sorcery, it was precisely octagonal in shape, and measured a hundred and twenty-eight feet across from side to side. The soaring, arched ceiling reached its apex a hundred and twenty-eight feet from the flat, stone floor, above an octagonal pit sixteen feet across. Every inch of the chamber’s surface—walls, floor and ceiling—had been inscribed with thousands of lines of precise runes. Each had been inlaid with the dust of the burning stone, causing them to pulse in precise, arcane patterns. Many of the runes were part of a complex formula designed to focus the magical energies of any ritual performed inside the space. Other runes, laid in concentric patterns along the floor and around the border of the chamber’s sole doorway, were part of a series of complex wards designed to keep the spirits of the restless dead at bay. Of all the brooding towers and shadow-haunted vaults of Nagashizzar, this place had taken the longest to create; more than twenty years of tireless research and complex incantations had been employed and now, at last, its arcane purpose was about to be fulfilled.

At the far end of the great chamber, opposite the arched doorway, stood a towering throne carved from the living rock. It rose like a jagged stalagmite from the chamber floor, and was flanked on all four corners by squat, stone pillars topped by rune-etched braziers of thick bronze. Fist-sized chunks of burning stone sent up a pulsing, greenish mist from each of the braziers, wreathing the awful skeleton seated upon the throne.

Nagash had been carried into the sanctum upon a golden palanquin as soon as the chamber had first taken shape and had rested upon the throne ever since. His crushed bones had been fitted back together by a combination of sorcery and silver wire, but despite this, his grip on the physical world had continued to deteriorate. The damage wrought by Akatha during the battle at mine shaft four had proved impossible to repair; the broken bones would not fuse together again, no matter how much power Nagash employed. Far worse, though, had been the scorching heat of the ratmen’s damned green fire. Had the fire-globe struck him directly, Nagash was certain that he wouldn’t have survived; as it was, the sheer heat of the blast had somehow damaged his skeleton’s ability to store the energies of the burning stone. The power leached from his bones constantly now. At first, Nagash had been forced to consume more abn-i-khat on a daily basis in order to survive; now he required new infusions every minute, or his skeleton would disintegrate.

The victory at mine shaft four had been a narrow one. Despite losing many of their leaders, the enemy had managed to finally restore their lines at mine shaft eight; Nagash had not the forces necessary to overcome them. He had fallen well short of his goals and for the first few years after the battle, the necromancer had grimly prepared for the inevitable counter-assault. But, inexplicably, the enemy never managed to regain their strength. They remained on the defensive, allowing him to fight a war of attrition and slowly wear away at their defences. Within thirty-five years, his warriors had reached the last of the enemy’s mine shafts, but Nagash could press no further. His forces had been reduced to just a thousand skeletons and a pair of war engines and he lacked the power to create any more. Despite the enemy’s battered state, he was not confident he could overcome them, and any day could see the arrival of reinforcements that could well seal his doom.

As much as it galled him to do so, the only option was to negotiate. He mustered every warrior he could outside the enemy barricades as a show of force, let the enemy’s scouts get a good look, and then sent Bragadh to offer terms. The very idea of treating with the ratmen as equals felt like a defeat of sorts, but Nagash was determined to at least profit from the exchange.

The vermin capitulated at once, never realising how precarious the situation truly was. Nagash reckoned that a few decades of trade with the ratmen was a small price to pay for a steady stream of slaves and raw materials that would allow him to rebuild Nagashizzar and restore his decimated army. A final reckoning with the ratmen could wait. At long last, Nagash could turn his attention back to Nehekhara and the vengeance he was due.

The necromancer’s burning gaze swept across the great chamber. Around the edge of the great pit in the centre of the room, Bragadh, Diarid and Thestus were arrayed at cardinal points around a ritual circle of pulsing runes. Their droning chant reverberated through the air, intoning the first of the five great incantations Nagash had taught them. The ritual chant stoked the energies of hundreds of pounds of abn-i-khat that had been painstakingly gathered and arranged in layers inside the pit. A twining column of sorcerous fire rose from its depths, whirling and pulsing in the air above the pit like the heat of a vast forge.

Beyond the hissing column of flame, Nagash could see pale, nebulous shapes hovering beyond the chamber door. The ghosts of the past had lingered there for years, watching and waiting for his demise. Was Neferem there, he wondered, or Thutep, or that damned priest Nebunefer? He hoped so. He wanted them to look upon his labours and despair.

Nagash studied the roaring furnace. He felt its heat and the currents of power that flowed within it. Far above, beyond the surface of the great mountain, the dreadful green moon burned full and bright. Satisfied, he turned his attention to his immortals.

All is in readiness, he told them. Attend to the crucible.

Resting on the floor at the foot of the dais was a great crucible of stone. Shaped by sorcery and weighing many tons, its mouth had been etched with a thick band of magical runes that corresponded to the second great incantation. Silently, the immortals withdrew from the furnace and proceeded to a pair of low, broad tables set to either side of Nagash’s throne. From there, they gathered flat, hexagonal plaques of pure abn-i-khat and placed them carefully inside the crucible. The plaques were arranged in a specific order, so that the runes etched into their surface came together to form a complex sigil, one that Nagash had spent many years creating.

Once the burning stone was in place, the immortals filled the crucible with alternating ingots of lead and a silvery-grey metal unlike anything known to humankind. It was far stronger than bronze, and the secrets of working the metal with hammer and anvil were unknown even to Nagash. The skaven said it was called gromril, and claimed to have plundered it at great cost from an underground realm far to the north. He had recognised its value at once.

When the last of the gromril had been laid in the crucible, the immortals took up position around the stone vessel and, at Nagash’s command, began the second great incantation. Power crackled in the air between them, until finally, with a ponderous sound of grating stone, the crucible began to move. It dragged slightly across the floor, then rose slowly into the air. Bragadh, Diarid and Thestus raised their arms, hands outstretched, and began to guide the floating vessel towards the waiting furnace.

It was slow, difficult work. The massive crucible, suspended solely by the power and will of the novice sorcerers alone, inched along at a wearying pace. Finally, hours later, the vessel slipped over the edge of the pit and into the roaring column of unnatural flame. The crucible bobbed like a cork over the magical updrafts, rising easily towards the ceiling, until it floated nearly ten feet above the surface of the floor. Ribbons of flame boiled along the crucible’s rough surface and poured over the vessel’s rim. Slowly but steadily, the runes etched into its surface began to glow with mounting intensity.

The second great ritual ended; now the third began. This time, Nagash began the rite, quickly subordinating the immortals as they worked to keep the crucible poised in the heart of the flame. Soon, a turbulent, multi-hued glow began to emanate from inside the vessel as the elements within were forced to combine.

Impurities boiled away in hissing bursts of poisonous steam as Nagash patiently worked his will upon the molten materials. The mists surrounding the throne dissipated swiftly as the powerful ritual consumed them.

For hours Nagash shaped the metal. When at last he judged that the molten ore was ready, he commanded his immortals to bring forth the moulds.

Bragadh, Diarid and Thestus returned to the long tables beside Nagash’s throne. Each one lifted a heavy block of obsidian and struggled to carry them back to the roaring flames. Each of the immortals made four trips in all, until twelve blocks of glossy stone stood at the edge of the glowing pit.

The three immortals were moving with great difficulty now. Their ancient armour and tattered robes were starting to disintegrate from the proximity to the furnace. Bragadh’s dark hair was gone, singed away, and his skin had taken on the colour of brittle parchment. Still, the northmen returned to their places around the pit and the fourth great incantation began.

Once again, the immortals reached out with their magic and gripped the floating crucible. Guided by Nagash, the vessel was pulled from the furnace. Bragadh, Diarid and Thestus limped around the perimeter of the pit as the crucible shifted, closing in around the vessel from three sides. Balancing the huge container precariously, Nagash and his immortals tipped it towards the first of the moulds. The fiercely glowing ore rose thickly to the brim and then a thin, precise stream of metal fell from the vessel and splashed onto the mould’s fill hole. Air howled like a tormented spirit as it was forced from the mould by the seething metal and currents of uncontrolled magic whiplashed through the air. Thestus and Diarid staggered as they were struck; their armour flaked away like ash, the flesh beneath blackened in an instant. The two immortals recoiled in agony, but Nagash froze them in place. Once begun, the rite had to be seen through to the end.

When the first mould was filled, Nagash moved on to the next. One by one, the blocks were filled, and the three northmen bore the brunt of the merciless heat and the wild magic. It flayed their flesh and burrowed into their bones, but the necromancer would not relent. He forced them to return the crucible to the fire and then ordered them to begin the fifth invocation.

Diarid and Thestus limped painfully to the first mould, while Bragadh staggered like a broken puppet towards the table on Nagash’s right. With charred hands he gripped the haft of a stone hammer and then made his way painfully back to his kinsmen.

Now came the most difficult part of the rite. Still concentrating on the rite and holding the immortals in place, Nagash turned his attention to his own shattered body. After a moment, his finger bones twitched, then, with a hollow, scraping sound, his elbows and knees. The dust of years seeped from his joints as the necromancer rose slowly to his feet.

One step at a time, Nagash descended from his throne. Tendrils of wild magic wrapped about his skeletal frame, creating livid, thread-like arcs of power along his bones. As he approached the first pair of moulds, Bragadh lifted his ravaged arms and struck the first stone block. Pent-up energies blazed from the stone, leaving glowing scars along Bragadh’s forearms, but the northman lifted the hammer to strike again.

On the third blow, the mould split apart. The two stone halves fell to the floor with a crash; within one lay the curved, red-hot surface of a dark metal breastplate. Nagash turned his gaze to Diarid and the northman reached for the armour with bare, trembling hands. Dead flesh sizzled as he gripped the metal and pulled it free. Then Diarid turned and laid the breastplate against Nagash’s chest. Moments later, the second mould was broken open, and Thestus lifted the armour’s backplate free. When the two pieces were joined together, their seams fused in a flash of blazing, green light. The heat was agonising, far worse than anything Nagash had known as a mortal, but still he commanded the immortals to continue.

For hours, the process continued. One piece of metal after another was laid atop Nagash’s skeleton and fused into place, creating a suit of all-enclosing armour more complex than anything human hands could produce. When the metal cooled, its surface was rough and black as night. Though designed with surpassing cunning, the armour itself was plain, even ugly. Like everything else in Nagashizzar, it was not made to please the eye, but to serve its master’s purpose.

As the pieces of armour were sealed about him, Nagash felt the change at once. The constant draining of power from his bones ebbed… then stopped entirely. The uncontrolled energies contained within the chamber’s layered wards began to flow towards him, sinking through the armour and becoming trapped there. His strength increased with every passing moment, far surpassing that of mortal men.

Finally, the last pieces of armour were fitted over Nagash’s feet. The heavy, stone hammer fell to the floor of the chamber with a dull thud. Bragadh’s ruined body swayed unsteadily on bony feet. The strain of the great rite had all but destroyed him and his kinsmen, reducing them to pathetic collections of pitted hide and brittle bones. Their faces—what was left of them—were frozen in masks of unspeakable torment. Compelled by Nagash’s will they gathered before him.

The necromancer raised his armoured hands and studied them, savouring the power that pulsed like living blood beneath the dark metal. Only his skull had been left exposed; it seemed to float above the throat of the breastplate, wreathed in ribbons of cold, sorcerous flame.

You have done well, Nagash told the suffering immortals. Better than I expected. But now your usefulness is at an end.

The necromancer held out his hands and, with a thought, stripped the immortals of their power. In an instant, their remaining flesh shrivelled and their bones collapsed as their souls were cast into the realms of the dead. They departed from the mortal plane with awful, soul-wrenching moans, drawing a cruel laugh from Nagash.

Go and tell Neferem that she will never know vengeance, he said to the wretched ghosts. I am Nagash, the Undying King! Death has no dominion over me!

When they were gone, the necromancer turned his gaze to the chamber doorway. The lingering spirits were nowhere to be seen.

One day, they would be made to suffer, he vowed. One day, when the world was his, he would call them back from the bleak lands and enslave them for all time. He savoured the thought for a moment, but then set it aside.

Nagash strode through the tangled piles of bone that had once been his champions and headed towards the crucible. He plucked the stone hammer from the floor.

There was one thing left to be done.

At the edge of the furnace, Nagash extended his open hand. The massive crucible wavered amid the flames and then obediently drifted towards him. The enormous pile of burning stone that had fuelled the rite had been nearly consumed; the crucible was floating much lower in the air than before. Only a small amount of the magical ore remained, bubbling away in its depths.

Nagash drew the crucible from the fire and set it upon the floor with a bone-jarring thud. Baleful green vapour rose from the molten ore within. As it cooled, the necromancer stared into its seething depths and began a sixth incantation, one far greater and more complex than the rest. The liquid metal stirred in response to the incantation, its components ordering itself in response to Nagash’s commands.

After half an hour, the metal had cooled enough to hold a rudimentary shape, a rough disc, the size of a small shield. Nagash continued to pour magical energy into the metal, until he was aware of every mote and its position in relation to the rest. He was creating a structure within, similar to the one he’d built into the Black Pyramid centuries ago, although far more sophisticated and refined.

When the structure was locked in place by the solidifying ore, Nagash reached into the crucible with his left hand. The red-hot metal came away easily from the polished surface of the vessel. The necromancer turned the disc-shaped ingot this way and that, inspecting it for any flaws. Satisfied, he uttered a swift incantation. Dust and ash rose from the floor, surrounding him—

—and were swiftly torn away by the teeth of a howling wind, high atop Nagashizzar’s tallest spire. Thick, heavy clouds roiled overhead, almost close enough to touch. The great fortress spread beneath him in a dense profusion of towers, manufactories, curtain walls and hulking redoubts. To the west, the poisoned sea heaved restlessly, churned by the dreadful occultation occurring high above.

Nagash cast his gaze skywards, to the ghostly smear of green light seeping like a bloodstain through the heavy overcast. He raised the disc of steaming metal overhead like an offering and spoke words of power that punched a whirling tunnel through the clouds. The bale-moon was revealed in all its terrible glory, eclipsing the face of Neru and blazing like the glaring eye of a malevolent god.

A few paces away, illuminated by the ghastly glow, sat a hulking bronze anvil. Beneath the awful moonlight, Nagash laid the disc on the anvil and lifted the stone hammer. As the words of the seventh and greatest of the night’s incantations rang through his mind, he began shaping the red-hot ore.

Each ringing blow reverberated through the stones of Nagashizzar, down into the mountain and through the dark depths of the mines. It rippled through the earth like the beating of a terrible heart, reaching into stone crypts and worm-ridden graves the length and breadth of the young world. Mouldering bones twitched, stirring up the dust of ages. Bruised eyelids fluttered and blind eyes slithered in their sockets, searching for the source of the portentous sound. In the desert, packs of jackals forgot their carrion and filled the air with their chilling cries.

Slowly but surely, the glowing metal bent to the necromancer’s will. The work was difficult, for Nagash was no metalsmith, but for the object to serve its purpose, it had to be shaped by his own hand and mind. The smithing was every bit as much a part of the rite as the incantation itself.

As the wide, heavy circlet took shape, Nagash poured not just magical power into the metal, but memories as well. From his bitter days as hierophant in Khemri, to the violent overthrow of Thutep, to his years of iron-fisted rule over all Nehekhara. He infused it with his lust for Neferem and his hatred for the gods of the once-Blessed Land; with his slaughter of the people of Mahrak and his fury at the betrayal of the army of Lahmia. More than anything else, he filled the metal with his lust for vengeance and his desire to rule over all mankind.

The hammer fell tirelessly, fuelled by hatred and ruthless ambition. There was no beauty or grace in the crown Nagash forged, only a dark and eternal purpose: to draw a veil of night over the world, and rule as king over a realm of the dead.

Forged by dark magic and infused with Nagash’s necromantic essence, the crown would magnify his powers a thousandfold. It was both a symbol and a potent tool, one that would seal the doom of the great cities of Nehekhara.

The green moon passed across the sky as Nagash worked, heedless of the ambitions of necromancers and men. By the time that the last hammer blow fell, the clouds had passed westwards and dawn was paling the sky to the east.

The stone hammer was charred black, riven with hundreds of cracks. When Nagash tossed it aside it struck the flagstones and shattered with a splintering crack.

Nagash the Undying lord of Nagashizzar and Master of the Wastes, gripped the jagged, smouldering crown and raised it like a challenge to the eastern sky.

The necromancer placed the dark crown upon his brow. Darkness fell over the great mountain like a funeral shroud.