—<NINETEEN>—

Crook and Sceptre

Lahmia, the City of the Dawn, in the 107th year of Ptra the Glorious
(-1200 Imperial Reckoning)

Within a week of Alcadizzar’s ambush, a band of Faisr’s best riders spurred their mounts and headed southwards, bearing grim tidings for the King of Rasetra. The tribesmen bore not just the head of the foul thing they’d slain outside Lahmia, but also several scroll cases that had been found amid the creature’s possessions. The letters within revealed a danger altogether more terrible and far-reaching than the cabal of blood-drinkers inside Lahmia. Nagash the Usurper, Tyrant of Khemri, still walked the earth, some five hundred years after his defeat at the Battle of Mahrak. It appeared that Neferata’s hidden court had somehow learned of the necromancer’s existence and sought an alliance with him against the other great cities. Along with the horrifying evidence, Alcadizzar included a letter of his own, meant to be copied and circulated throughout the land, exhorting the royal houses to marshal their armies and cleanse the land of Lahmia’s evil once and for all.

Alcadizzar’s younger brother, Asar, now an old and powerful king in his own right, sent emissaries with copies of the letters to every corner of the land. Rasetra called upon a vast and complex framework of secret treaties, some many decades in the making, compelling the Nehekharan kings to march eastwards and assemble upon the Golden Plain without delay. When the news from Lahmia was made known, not a single ruler dared to renege on his or her obligations. To do so would have cast their lot with the Lahmians, which would have invited certain destruction from the other great cities.

Six months after the stolen letters left Alcadizzar’s hands, the armies began to move. The terms of Rasetra’s treaties indicated not only when each host was to start their march, but also which roads and how many supplies they would be required to carry with them. Each movement was part of a vast and complicated schedule devised by Alcadizzar, Asar, and the veteran warlords of Rasetra, designed so that each element of the coalition would arrive upon the plain at more or less the same time. Facing the possibility of trade penalties if they failed to meet their time of march, the great cities wasted little time in preparing their hosts for war. The Rasetrans, it appeared, had learned a great deal from the financial warfare of the Lahmians, some four centuries earlier.

By the end of the year the armies began to gather upon the great plain. The first was the host of Rasetra, led by Asar’s heir, Prince Heru. Ten thousand of the city’s vaunted heavy infantry, plus two thousand swift war-chariots drawn by lean jungle lizards. Next came the scholar-warriors of Lybaras, whose fearsome siege engines would be pitted against Lahmia’s walls; their train included a dozen huge catapults, eight ballistae and four armoured fire-throwers, all drawn by teams of surly, groaning oxen. They were met at the centre of the plain by a surprising sight—the assembled warriors of all the desert tribes, some eight thousand of the finest light cavalry in the land, clad in burnished armour and billowing silk robes. The sons of the distant sands welcomed Prince Heru and the Lybaran king, Ahmenefret, with gifts of gold, perfumed oils and wine, and directed the tired warriors to campsites that had been prepared for them along the dusty trade road.

Two days later, just as the sun was setting and the chill of the winter evening was settling on the sprawling camp, came the clarion call of trumpets and the ringing of silver bells. Chanting and singing to Neru, goddess of the moon, there appeared from the gloom some five thousand priestly warriors from the once-great city of Mahrak. The Hurusanni, or Devoted, as they were called, patterned their weapons and training on the legendary Ushabti of ancient times. This was the first time the order had marched to war since its founding, some two hundred years past, and they greeted the camp with joyous shouts, eager to come to grips with the evil things that lurked in nearby Lahmia. The shaven-headed youths took their place alongside the road and spent the rest of the evening in meditation and prayer.

Hours later, as Neru shone high above the camp, the warriors of the three armies awoke to the rumble of marching feet bearing down upon them out of the darkness to the west. Men shrugged on their armour and reached for their weapons; desert tribesmen went galloping from the camp into the night, their expressions tense. Veterans and novices alike shared uneasy glances as the tramp of armoured feet grew louder. The warrior-priests of Mahrak began intoning prayers of abjuration, meant to hold the hungry spirits of the wasteland at bay. Then they saw them; white figures, marching in silence down the road, their lacquered armour glimmering in the moonlight. Their helms were fashioned in the shape of jackals’ heads, the sacred visage of Djaf, god of the dead. They were the fabled Tomb Guard of Quatar: five thousand heavy infantry, led by their king, Nebunefre, Lord of the Tombs.

After the arrival of the warriors of Quatar, the armies settled in to watch the trade road and wait for the rest of the western armies to arrive. Over the next few days a pair of small caravans were spotted, laden with goods for markets in Lybaras and Mahrak. The Lahmian merchants and their wares were seized at once and all the useful items were distributed amongst the three armies.

At the end of the week, long ribbons of dust were spotted off to the west. Two days later, columns of proud Numasi cavalry, ten thousand strong, came trotting into the camp, led by their queen Omorose. The desert warriors paced alongside the cavalry on both sides of the road, prancing and pirouetting their smaller, nimbler mounts, and shouting good-natured challenges to the dour horse soldiers. Behind them, marching to the thunder of heavy kettledrums, came the warriors of Ka-Sabar’s Iron Legion; fifteen thousand heavily-armoured spearmen and four thousand archers, their sweaty faces caked with ochre dust stirred by the columns of Numasi cavalry. Their king, Aten-sefu, marched in the front rank with the rest of his travel-stained warriors, his armour virtually indistinguishable from that of his men.

The next day—a full week ahead of schedule—came the host of Zandri. Two thousand archers, four thousand spearmen and another five thousand pale-skinned northern mercenaries, all brought by barge up the River Vitae as far as the north-west edge of the Golden Plain, then marched overland through rough country to the armies’ marshalling point. Their king, Rakh-an-atum, brought with him rich gifts of gold and silver for the gathered kings and a necklace of fine pearls for Queen Omorose—a not-so-subtle display of the city’s burgeoning wealth and potential influence.

Within the space of seven days, a force of more than sixty thousand warriors had been assembled from six widely separated cities—a feat of planning and coordination unparalleled in Nehekharan history. Only Khemri was yet to be accounted for, and several of the kings—Rakh-an-atum in particular—doubted that their contribution would amount to much, if anything. The once-great city was still not much more than a Rasetran colony, administered by generations of viziers over the last four hundred years. The process of reconstruction had been long and difficult and was still far from complete, thanks in no small part to meddling on the part of Zandri and Numas themselves.

Yet at dawn on the day of Khemri’s expected arrival, a fanfare of brass horns roused the warriors from their slumber, followed by the surf-like sound of cheers echoing down the western trade road. Dazed soldiers stumbled out into the cold morning air to behold a joyous and colourful procession of two hundred chariots rolling into camp, each one manned by the lord of one of Khemri’s noble houses. The noble lords and their retainers were not armed and armoured for war, but instead were clad in their finest feast garments. As they rolled by, they tossed handfuls of coins to the dumbfounded soldiers, laughing and chanting “Alcadizzar! Alcadizzar!” at the top of their lungs.

Behind the chariots came columns of javelin-wielding light infantry, clad in pristine white tunics and polished leather armour, followed by rank upon rank of spearmen. Six thousand infantry all told, plus another two thousand slave auxiliaries armed with slings and short swords. A meagre showing by military standards, but the warriors of Khemri marched with their heads held high, cheering Alcadizzar’s name. They were followed by a parade of wagons larger than any trader’s caravan, each one painted in bright, celebratory colours and laden with wine and gifts. On this day of days, the people of the Living City were determined not to make a poor showing before the other cities. They had spared no expense, held nothing back, for this was the moment they had been waiting for since the birth of King Aten-heru’s eldest son, a hundred and fifty years ago.

Khemri would have a king once more.

Ever since he was a child, Alcadizzar had dreamed of the day he would become king. He had pictured sundrenched streets lined with cheering throngs, scattered with glittering coins and offerings of fragrant oils and a solemn ceremony in the ancient palace built by Settra himself, surrounded by friends and noble allies. There would be feasting and celebrating for a week afterwards; the people of the city would come and pay their respects each day, laying gifts at his feet and praising his name. Princesses of distant cities would make his acquaintance each evening, plying him with their charms and vying to become his queen.

“Hold still, great one,” the priest said, gripping his chin firmly and shaking Alcadizzar from his reverie. A fingertip, covered in thick, black kohl, was inching towards his left eye. “You may wish to cast your gaze upwards for just a moment.”

Alcadizzar swallowed quickly and looked up just in time. The kohl was warm and gritty and smelled of charcoal. It felt as though the priest was slowly and mercilessly grinding it into his lower eyelid. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to remain still, holding his arms stiffly out to his sides while another pair of priests fussed with the starched, knee-length kilt that had been wrapped tightly about his hips. He hadn’t taken a single step since putting it on and it was already starting to chafe.

The air within the tent was near to stifling and redolent with the scent of horse manure, cooking grease and thousands of unwashed bodies. A small group of slaves bustled about, eyes downcast and scalps glistening with sweat, packing chests, rolling up rugs and taking away empty chairs to be loaded with the rest of the army’s baggage. Faisr and Prince Heru were forced to stand in one corner of the tent, poring over a map rolled out on the last remaining table. Outside, the air shook with shouted orders, the creak of axles and the complaining bellows of oxen as the vast army continued the process of breaking camp. The timetable for the march to Lahmia would not be denied, regardless of the petty needs of aspiring kings.

“So long as the weather holds—and there’s no reason to suspect it won’t—the vanguard of the army should reach the Lahmian watch-forts at the eastern edge of the plain in just over three weeks,” Prince Heru said. “How close can we get before we risk running into mounted patrols covering the trade road?”

Faisr chuckled. “We’ve spent the last year discouraging the Lahmians from leaving the forts at all,” he said. “If you march the last thirty miles by night, they’ll never see you coming.”

Heru glanced up at Faisr. “You’re certain? Because the whole campaign hinges on seizing the eastern pass,” the Rasetran said. “If the Lahmians get warning that we’re on the way, they could rush a few thousand men into the gap and hold it against ten times their number.”

“Trust Faisr,” Alcadizzar interjected. He tried to nod reassuringly at the desert chieftain, but the priest still had his chin in a vice grip. “The tribes know the Golden Plain better than anyone and they’ve made certain that Lahmia has no idea we’re coming. They’ve intercepted every message sent by Neferata’s agents since the armies began to march, and ambushed every patrol the Lahmians have tried to send down the trade road. We owe them a great debt for all they’ve done so far.”

Faisr accepted the praise with a grave nod of the head. The last ten months had been a tumultuous period for the chieftain and for the desert tribes in general. Alcadizzar’s revelations in the wake of the ambush outside Lahmia had thrown the tribes into chaos. Faisr himself had been furious over Alcadizzar’s long years of deception and when the truth became more widely known, several ambitious chieftains tried to paint Faisr as complicit in the prince’s deception. But Ophiria intervened, revealing her oath to Alcadizzar and declaring the prince to be the fulfilment of Settra’s prophecy.

After that, the political manoeuvring began in deadly earnest. The chieftains had heard the news about Neferata and the discovery about Nagash, and knew that the winds of war would soon begin to blow. The tribes had to unite under a single leader, as they hadn’t done since the death of Shahid ben Alcazzar, the last Prince of Bhagar. A gathering was called, up in the mountains along the northern edge of the plain, and the chieftains met in Ophiria’s tent to press their claim. The competition was fierce, but the outcome was never really in doubt. Seven days later, the Daughter of the Sands appeared and declared to the tribes that Faisr al-Hashim had been acclaimed Prince Faisal, first among the chieftains of the bani-al-Khsar. Faisr had accepted the title with uncharacteristic humility and grace, quickly winning over all but the bitterest of his rivals, and had worked tirelessly ever since to prepare his people for what was to come.

Over time, Faisr had forgiven Alcadizzar for his deceptions, but it had created a rift between them that had never truly healed. At Alcadizzar’s insistence, the chieftain was among his closest advisors, but otherwise they saw little of one another. Of all the sacrifices he’d been called upon to make in his life, losing Faisr’s friendship and respect had pained the prince most of all.

“On the night before the vanguard arrives, my warriors will seize the forts,” Faisr continued. “The two forts covering the pass we will hold onto; the rest we’ll burn. Then your troops can carry on through the pass and secure the far side.”

Heru gave the chieftain an appraising look, then shrugged. “Then, all else being equal, we’ll be outside the walls of Lahmia in twenty-three days. What do we know about the state of the Lahmian army at this stage?”

Gold bracelets were being slipped onto Alcadizzar’s wrists and a belt of heavy gold links was drawn around his hips. The priest had gotten some of the kohl in his eye, and it was starting to burn.

“We outnumber them, that’s for certain,” he said through gritted teeth. “And the quality of their troops is poor, to say the least. They might be counted on to hold the city walls for a time, but once the Lybarans have made a breach, they won’t be able to hold us.” Finally, the priest finished with the kohl, and Alcadizzar turned his head away with a sigh.

“What about the dragon powder?” Heru asked.

“The Lahmians haven’t raised any companies of Dragon Men since the last war,” Alcadizzar said. “That tells me they don’t have any dragon powder left.” He gave Faisr a knowing look. “It’s Neferata and her ilk we need to be concerned about.”

Heru grimaced. He’d seen the severed head of the monster first-hand. “And how many of those creatures are there?”

Alcadizzar belatedly realised that the priests had stepped back and were surveying their handiwork. With a scowl, he lowered his arms.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” he told Heru. “Not many, else they couldn’t have remained secret for so long. If we’re lucky, there are no more than a handful of them. Even so, there’s no telling how much harm they could do us if we’re not careful.”

The tent flap drew aside once more. A nervous-looking priest entered. “It is nearly time,” he announced.

“Prince Alcadizzar is ready,” the senior priest replied.

Alcadizzar glanced down at his bare chest and arms. “I feel naked,” he muttered.

Heru laughed. “It’s traditional,” he replied. “And likely more comfortable in Khemri, which sits at the edge of the Great Desert.”

Faisr let out a snort. “No desert dweller with an ounce of sense would be caught in public dressed like that. He looks like an overgrown babe.”

They all shared a chuckle at that. The priests shifted about nervously. Heru noted their discomfort and waved Alcadizzar towards the tent flap. “Lead on, uncle,” he said. “The sooner the ceremony is done, the sooner you can put your robes back on.”

A priest rushed forwards to draw the tent flap aside, admitting a brief gust of dusty air. Alcadizzar stepped out into the confusing swirl of an army preparing to march. Men dashed about purposefully in every direction. Some carried chests, or clay jars, their brows sheened with sweat; others marched in tight groups, turned out smartly in full armour and clutching their weapons tightly. Still others stumbled bewilderedly down the trade road, half-wearing their wargear and clutching the rest against their chests, searching vainly for their parent units. Voices laughed and cursed, bawled orders or cried out in confusion. A pall of dust hung over everything, churned up by thousands of shuffling feet. No one paid the least attention to Alcadizzar and his retinue. He glanced around bemusedly, fighting the sudden urge to sneeze.

“This way, great one.” The senior priest hurried up beside Alcadizzar and indicated a narrow lane running south between rows of campaign tents. Feeling a bit like a farmer’s prized ox, he allowed himself to be herded along by the holy men. Heru and Faisr fell into step to either side of him.

The young prince cast a sidelong glance at his uncle and smiled ruefully. “Not quite what you expected,” he said.

Alcadizzar grimaced. “There are a few things missing, I admit. A city, for example. Cheering throngs. A procession of chariots.” He frowned at the priests. “You’d think we could have managed the chariots, at least.”

“We needed them more in the vanguard.” Heru chuckled. “I suppose we could round up some spear companies and order them to cheer for you, if that would make you feel better.”

“How about a company of dancing girls? Do we have any of those in the army?”

Heru arched his eyebrows in mock disdain. “Who do you think we are, a bunch of decadent Lahmians?” The Rasetran shrugged. “Look, it could be worse. I managed to talk the priests into dispensing with the formal ceremony, at least. Otherwise we’d still be at this by sunset.”

To Alcadizzar’s surprise, Faisr glowered at the priests and grunted in agreement. “Not the best way to begin one’s rule, perhaps, but a necessary one,” he said. “The army must have a clear leader, and the other kings won’t accept the authority of a mere prince, no matter who he may be.”

“Look at all the trouble I’ve had from Zandri and Numas already,” Heru added. “They’ve complained about everything from their place in the order of march, to the number of wagons allocated for their baggage. Imagine what they’ll be like when we’re camped outside Lahmia.”

Alcadizzar raised his hands in surrender. “I know, I know,” he replied. He’d expected Rakh-an-atum and Omorose to try and assert their authority at every step. The last thing they wanted was to see Khemri regain its former power, so they would try to undercut him in any way they could. It wasn’t enough to focus on the immediate problems of the campaign; if he wanted to succeed, he had to begin anticipating the challenges that would arise in the months and years to come. Not for the first time, Alcadizzar offered a silent prayer of thanks to the spirit of his long-dead tutor Jabari.

The priests led him to the far end of the lane. Beyond the last cluster of tents stretched a wide field of trampled earth, dimpled by horse hooves and rutted by wagon tracks. The sun was almost directly overhead, causing the shifting curtains of dust to shimmer as they drifted across the open ground. Beyond, wavering like some desert mirage, was the sight of a gleaming white pavilion, surrounded by a silent, watchful crowd of perhaps a hundred people.

The senior priest waved the procession to a halt and gauged the position of the sun with a practiced eye. “A bit slower now, great one,” he said, smiling in satisfaction. He clapped his hands, and the rest of the priestly retinue swiftly formed ranks to left and right of Faisr and Heru. When they were in position, the holy man raised his hands to the sun and across the field came a ragged cheer, punctuated by the clash of cymbals and silver bells. The senior priests nodded gravely and set off towards the waiting pavilion at a steady, measured pace.

Alcadizzar’s mind was a riot of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He ought to be happy, he thought. The moment he’d been preparing for his entire life was unfolding before his eyes. But all he could think about were the thousand and one tasks that needed tending to between here and Lahmia. As hard as he tried to savour the moment, he found it almost impossible to focus.

They’d crossed nearly half the field in tense silence, squinting through the shifting dust, when Heru abruptly spoke. “So, have you given any thought to a wife?”

Alcadizzar blinked, shaken from his reverie. “First this, and now you’re trying to get me married, as well?”

Heru chuckled. “Just trying to make conversation,” he said. “Traditionally, you’d be marrying a daughter of Lahmia, you know.”

“Really?” Alcadizzar replied archly. “My Lahmian tutors never once mentioned that.”

Heru let out a snort. “Point being, that’s one tradition likely to go by the wayside. Unless you still intend to respect Khemri’s ancient ties to Lahmia after you’ve torn it stone from stone.”

“Doesn’t seem much point, when you put it that way,” Alcadizzar said dryly.

“Exactly,” Heru replied. “Father wants you to choose someone from Rasetra, of course. Strengthen the ties between east and west, that sort of thing. Or you could choose someone from Zandri or Numas. That would certainly roil the pot.”

“I’d rather marry for love than political gain.”

“Very funny, uncle.”

Alcadizzar sighed. “If you must know,” he said, glancing sidelong at Faisr, “I’d planned on marrying a woman of the desert tribes.”

Heru’s eyes widened. “Ah,” he said diplomatically. Instead, it was Faisr who blurted the obvious question.

“Why would you do such a thing?”

There was an edge to Faisr’s voice, as though the chieftain half-believed he was being mocked.

Alcadizzar looked his old friend in the eye. “Because they are my people,” he said. “Bound by ties of blood and honour. Those are the bonds that matter most to me.”

The answer surprised Faisr. “Well,” he began, momentarily at a loss for words. “I… suppose such a thing is possible. But she would have to be very desperate indeed to settle for such an abysmal horseman.”

“Surely not desperate,” Heru protested, but his eyes glittered wickedly. “Maybe just… slow of mind.”

Faisr scratched at his bearded chin thoughtfully. “There is a woman of the bani-al-Shawat who was kicked in the head by a horse…”

Ahead of the nobles, the senior priest came to a sudden halt. They were only twenty yards or so from the pavilion now, close enough for Alcadizzar to see the expressions of the Khemrians who had gathered to witness his ascension. They ranged from richly clad nobles to common soldiers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder to welcome their new king. Many wept openly, beaming with pride as they chanted ancient songs of blessing to Ptra, father of the gods and patron of their city.

From the midst of the chanting crowd emerged a tall figure clad in robes of white and gleaming cloth of gold. Sunlight blazed from the golden mantle set about his shoulders and the head of the tall staff clutched in his right hand. Atop the staff was a great golden orb, borne on the shoulders of four rearing sphinxes—the seal of Ptra, the Great Father himself. It caught the light of the noonday sun and shone so brightly that it was almost painful to look upon. Shepsu-amun, the Grand Hierophant of Ptra, left the crowd and went to join the waiting procession. He bowed to the senior priest, who returned the gesture and swiftly stepped aside. The hierophant took the priest’s place at the head of the procession, smiling briefly at Alcadizzar before turning back to the pavilion.

The cheering crowd suddenly fell silent. Behind Alcadizzar, the noise of the army camp had faded to a dull roar. He was suddenly aware of the heat of the sun on his scalp and the caress of the dusty breeze across his shoulders and face.

At some unseen signal, the crowd around the pavilion parted to the left and right, revealing a stocky, middle-aged man, clad in robes of samite and bearing the gold circlet of the Living City’s Grand Vizier. His name was Inofre, the latest in a long line of regents who had rebuilt Khemri from nothing while Alcadizzar had lived as a hostage in Lahmia. Hands clasped at his waist, he cried out in a clear, powerful voice. “Hearken! The people of the city cry out for succour from the blazing sands and the evils of the night! They gather before the throne to receive the wisdom of the gods, but it lies empty! Where is the great king?”

The crowd raised their hands to the sky, taking up their part in the ancient rite. “Great god of the sun, where is our king?”

Shepsu-amun raised the blazing staff of Ptra and answered. “The young king, Thutep, has gone into the dusk and resides with the spirit of his ancestors, until the day when the sons of Man cast off the bonds of death.”

“Who, then, will lead us?” Inofre replied. “The enemies of the city gather about us even now. Has the Great Father forsaken us?”

At this, the hierophant threw back his shoulders and laughed. It was a rich, joyous sound, a bright counterpoint to the solemn rite. “Fear not, people of the city, for Ptra hears you! He has sent a man of honour and courage to lead you through the dark times to come.”

“Who is this man?” Inofre asked.

“Alcadizzar!” Shepsu-amun declared proudly. “A prince of royal blood, son of Aten-heru, King of Rasetra.”

“Alcadizzar!” shouted the crowd. “Alcadizzar!”

Inofre beckoned. “Then let him come forth, to receive the instruments of rulership and accept the accolades of his people!”

The hierophant nodded and approached the white pavilion at a slow, stately pace. Alcadizzar followed behind, his heart fluttering in his chest. It was as though a great weight was settling about his shoulders—the mantle of history, stretching back to the time of Settra himself. He could feel the stares of the assembled crowd as he passed by. Inofre had cautioned him to keep his gaze fixed straight ahead, but he couldn’t help but look from side to side, meeting the eyes of the people around him. My people, he thought. The thought was surreal, after so many years living alone among the tribes.

Suddenly, Shepsu-amun stepped to Alcadizzar’s left and the prince found himself standing before an ancient throne of dark, polished wood. The throne of Khemri, a relic of ancient times recovered from the Usurper’s camp at the Battle of Mahrak by the Rasetrans and returned to the Living City centuries later. Upon its surface rested the ceremonial instruments of ruler-ship—a miniature shepherd’s crook, wrought in pure gold, and a gleaming sceptre surmounted by a golden sun-disc.

Alcadizzar took a deep breath and reached for the sceptre. The shaft was warm to the touch and fitted easily into his palm. Next he took up the crook, crossing the two objects over his heart. Then, moving as though in a dream, he took his seat upon Settra’s great throne. As he did, the hierophant turned to the crowd.

“The king has come! People of Khemri, look upon Ptra’s chosen one and rejoice!”

Raucous cheers rose into the air. Seated upon the throne, Alcadizzar could see past the small crowd and back across the field where the great army was breaking camp. The sight called to him in a way that no throne ever could.

Alcadizzar rose to his feet. The Grand Vizier bowed once again. “What is your will, great one?” he asked.

The king unceremoniously pressed crook and sceptre into Inofre’s hands. There were many hours of hard riding ahead before the army would camp for the night, and then many hours more going over details of the attack on the city with Heru and his fellow rulers. If he was lucky, his coronation feast would consist of a bit of unleavened bread and a cup of watered wine. The thought made him smile.

“Bring me my horse… and a proper set of clothes,” the king said. “There’s work to be done.”