—<TWENTY>—
A Storm from the West
Lahmia, the City of the
Dawn, in the 107th year of Ptra the Glorious
(-1200 Imperial Reckoning)
The fires could be seen from the western quarters of the city; a shifting curtain of dull, orange light dancing along the tops of the hills that bordered the eastern edge of the Golden Plain. Families ventured furtively out onto their rooftops, or, daring greatly, gathered in the rubbish-strewn market squares to wonder at the sight. Most believed that the scrubland on the far side of the hills had caught fire; the previous summer had been an unseasonably dry one and the woodland was little more than tinder. Others, however—mostly wide-eyed vagrants, but not a few priests as well—saw an otherworldly significance in the baleful light. They warned the crowds that the wickedness at the heart of the city had grown so great that the gods had chosen to return and mete judgement upon Lahmia. The fire would build like a great wave behind the hills, until it finally overtopped them and came crashing down on the city, scorching it from the face of the earth. Grim-faced men of the City Guard did their best to silence the fearmongers, but the best they could do was slow the spread of hysteria. By midnight there were mobs converging on the temple district and riots were sweeping through the Travellers’ Quarter.
This time, the hysteria was justified. The madmen were closer to the truth than anyone—except Ushoran, and a handful of others, mortal and immortal—suspected.
The Lord of Masks wiped the last of his tools clean and slid them clumsily into their loops on the wide leather wallet. Behind him, his evening’s entertainment gave one final spasm against his restraints and then expired, his death-rattle echoing in the chilly confines of the cellar. Ushoran bared his teeth at the sound, his anger at the waste of such exceptional flesh momentarily eclipsing the panic that churned in his guts.
Now he knew why he hadn’t heard anything from his agents in the west for nearly a year. It was possible that the great cities had finally grown tired of paying their yearly tribute to Lahmia; Ushoran had known all along that, sooner or later, revolt was inevitable. It was the timing that disturbed him. What could have possibly forced the great cities to put aside their differences now, after hundreds of years of rivalry? He could think of only one thing.
Ushoran hadn’t heard from Zurhas since the immortal had left the city a year ago. Something had gone very, very wrong.
Footfalls thumped hurriedly across the floors of the house as his thralls gathered his personal effects together. He’d had a plan for escaping the city for the last several years, against the day that Neferata’s patience would finally run out. There were forged letters of transit in a bag upstairs that would get him onto a boat in the harbour or pass him through the city gates; he hadn’t yet made up his mind which course he would choose. Escaping to the east would put him well beyond Neferata’s grasp, but his future in one of the Silk Land’s coastal trade cities was uncertain at best. Conversely, he would prosper more easily in one of the other Nehekharan cities, but only if he could slip past the armies that were even now only a few hours from the city walls. He could do it alone, of that he was certain, but that would mean leaving his thralls and nearly all of his other possessions behind.
Ushoran carefully rolled the wallet into a tight cylinder and bound it closed with a braided cord of human hair. The Lord of Masks stroked the stained leather protectively. He could start anew in some other place. He could be anyone he wanted to be. All he needed were his tools. The rest he could do without.
West it was, then. If he moved quickly, he and his thralls could slip through the city’s west gate, then turn northwards just as Zurhas had done. From there, they could take refuge in the city’s necropolis, scouting a safe path through the enemy patrols that would take them into the wooded hills to the north-west. He knew of narrow game paths that would take him onto the Golden Plain, far north of the trade road. If he encountered any trouble along the way, he could abandon the thralls to their fate and make his escape.
Upstairs, the footfalls had gone silent. All was in readiness. Clutching his tools against his chest, the Lord of Masks raced up the mud-brick stairs to the house’s ground floor. The quicker he was beyond the city walls, the better.
When he’d purchased the house, decades ago, the cellar stairs had been accessible through an archway at the rear of the building. Since then, he’d had the entrance hidden behind a cunningly wrought disguised door. Ushoran pressed the door’s latch with the tip of a claw and pushed it wide. Beyond was a large storeroom, piled with an assortment of wooden boxes and empty clay jars—placed there to contribute to the illusion that real people actually lived in the building. An archway opposite opened onto a short corridor that led to the house’s gathering room. His mind buzzing with the myriad details of his escape plan, Ushoran hurried to join his thralls.
He did not note the stink of spilled blood at first. His nose was deadened to the scent after the evening’s entertainments. It was only when he emerged into the gathering room and stepped into a wide, tacky pool of gore that Ushoran realised the house had, in the space of a few heartbeats, been transformed into an abattoir.
The bodies of his thralls were scattered about the room. It looked like a battlefield: heads split, limbs severed, torsos slashed and entrails spilled across the floor. Blood painted the white walls in looping streaks and explosive spatters. Gore was splashed across the ordered rows of leather packs and saddlebags that had been set beside the door.
Ushoran froze, momentarily stunned by the suddenness and ferocity of the assault. A slight movement to his left caught the immortal’s eye.
Ankhat sat at the gathering room’s crude wooden table, idly tracing shapes with a fingertip through the spots of blood pooled across its rough surface. A red-stained iron sword lay on the table next to him, within easy reach.
The immortal fixed Ushoran with a steady, implacable stare. “You have some explaining to do, my lord.”
Ushoran bared his teeth in a silent snarl, like an animal at bay. Mind reeling, he tried to compose himself, only to realise with an icy shock that he wasn’t cloaked in his customary disguise. Ankhat could see him for what he really was, and showed not the slightest surprise.
“What is the meaning of this?” hissed the Lord of Masks.
Ankhat leaned forwards in his chair. “Now that,” he said, “is a very interesting question, considering the circumstances.”
Ushoran grew very still. His hands slowly closed into fists. How much did Ankhat know? The noble was swift and deadly with a blade, but Ushoran knew he was far stronger. Could he kill Ankhat? Possibly.
“How did you find me?” Ushoran said. He edged towards the table a fraction of a step.
Ankhat did not answer. Instead, Neferata’s icy voice spoke from the darkness beyond the door.
“We have known about your secrets for quite some time,” she said, gliding like a pallid wraith into the blood-streaked room. Her retinue of maidens followed in her wake, fanged mouths gaping hungrily at the scent of so much carnage.
Neferata stalked towards Ushoran, her tattered robes swaying hypnotically with every languid step. Her eyes were pools of darkness, empty of human feeling.
“While your agents watched the kings of the great cities, Ankhat’s agents were watching you,” Neferata continued. “In truth, your appetites meant nothing to me, so long as you were useful.”
He never saw the blow. One moment, Neferata was several feet away—the next, he was being hurled against the far wall with a thunderous crash. Fragments of whitewashed mud flew across the room.
Neferata’s fist tightened like a vice around Ushoran’s throat. Her face was expressionless as she pushed him harder against the wall. Fragments of brick ground against his back.
“But now the forts along the plain are burning and an army has seized the eastern pass. A soldier from one of the forts escaped and lived long enough to bring us the news.” Her fist tightened further. “I think you have disappointed me for the last time, my lord.”
Ushoran gripped Neferata’s slender wrist and fought with all his strength for enough air to speak. “I… did… not… know!” he gasped. “My… agents… slain…”
Neferata’s eyes narrowed angrily. “Do you expect me to believe that this vast network of agents you’ve boasted about for so many years was undone so quickly and thoroughly that you received no warning whatsoever?” Quick as a viper, she drew back her arm and slammed Ushoran back against the wall, sending more clay fragments spraying around the room. “Now you’re insulting my intelligence.”
The Lord of Masks pawed desperately at Neferata’s wrist. “You’re… right,” he hissed, his mind racing. “Not… the… agents. The… messages… intercepted.” His eyes widened. “Bandits… on the… plain. The… desert… tribes…”
“And why would a gang of flea-bitten thieves suddenly take an interest in your couriers?” Neferata snarled.
There was only one answer Ushoran could think of. “Alcadizzar,” he croaked.
For a moment, it looked as though Neferata’s icy mask would crumble. Her eyes flashed angrily, but she abruptly released the Lord of Masks, allowing his misshapen body to slide heavily to the floor. “Explain,” she demanded.
Ushoran drew a deep breath. The more he considered the notion, the more things started to make sense. “The tribes… wouldn’t care,” he began. “Unless someone gave them a reason to.”
Neferata scowled at him. “Alcadizzar? A prince among thieves? Is that your explanation?”
Wood creaked as Ankhat leaned back against the rough-hewn chair. “As much as I hate to admit it, the idea is not as far-fetched as it sounds,” he said. “The desert tribes have ancient ties to Khemri, going back as far as Settra himself.”
“They must have been sheltering him all along,” Ushoran said. “He was under our noses, hiding right outside the city. The tribes have always been secretive and hostile to outsiders. Every attempt to infiltrate them came to nothing. If Alcadizzar could have convinced them of his lineage, though, he might well have won them over.”
“And now the little prince has managed to turn the other great cities against us,” Ankhat said, casting an accusing look at Neferata.
“How?” Neferata demanded. “We’ve kept them at one another’s throats for centuries.”
“Does it matter?” Ushoran interjected. “The enemy is nearly at our gates. The question is, can we defeat them?”
For several, agonising seconds, neither Ankhat nor Neferata spoke and Ushoran began to fear he’d overreached. But then Ankhat sighed heavily, breaking the tension.
“The army is not trustworthy,” he said reluctantly. “We can count on the royal guard, of course, and most of the noble companies, but that’s all.”
“The people of Lahmia will defend their city,” Neferata snarled. “Call up the citizen levies. Anyone who does not answer the summons will be slain out of hand.”
“The moment we start executing people, we may as well open the gates and invite Alcadizzar in,” Ankhat said flatly. “The city will tear itself apart.”
Neferata glared angrily at Ankhat, but the immortal didn’t waver. Finally she growled. “How many, then?”
“Twenty thousand,” Ankhat replied. “Two thousand cavalry, a thousand archers, and the rest infantry.” He shrugged. “They’re inexperienced, but it doesn’t take much skill to stand on a wall and stick men with a spear.”
“Will that be enough?”
Ankhat shrugged. “I have no idea. We don’t really know what we’re dealing with yet.”
“We can guess,” Ushoran said. “There have been no reports from the west for many months. If Alcadizzar has roused Zandri, Numas, Quatar and Ka-Sabar, we could be facing as many as fifty thousand men. If he’s won over Rasetra and Lybaras as well—and there’s no reason to think he hasn’t—then the number could be much higher. All they would need to do is create a breach in the walls and it would be all over.”
Neferata shot a look at Ankhat, expecting the immortal to challenge Ushoran’s dire assessment. When he did not, her expression turned grim.
“There must be a way to stop them,” she said. “There must be. I’ll die the true death before I give up this city—and I’ll see the rest of you die with me!”
Ankhat stiffened, his eyes narrowing angrily. He started to rise from the chair, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword.
Ushoran’s eyes widened. If Ankhat turned his blade on Neferata, then all would be lost. With her maidens at her back, she would destroy them both.
“There might be a way!” he shouted. “But there will be a price, great one.”
Ankhat paused. Neferata turned to Ushoran, her eyes glinting like polished onyx.
“Tell me,” she said.
The vanguard of the army moved in good order down through the wooded hills and reached Lahmia’s walls by midnight; the leading companies of the army’s main body, Alcadizzar and Heru among them, joined up with them just before dawn. By the time they arrived, Faisr’s tribesmen had preparations for the army’s sprawling camp well under way, marking positions for tents, enclosures and corrals by torchlight.
Alcadizzar leaned back in the saddle with a grimace, trying to stretch his lower back. They had been riding since just after dawn the day before and he ached from his shoulders to his toes. The chariots and spearmen of Khemri filed past in weary ranks, heading for their assigned spot at the centre of the camp.
Heru drew up alongside the king looking as relaxed and alert as though he were on an afternoon ride. Leather creaked as he leaned forwards in the saddle and surveyed the distant city. “A strange sort of homecoming,” he said to Alcadizzar. “How long has it been?”
Alcadizzar sighed and tried to count the years. Eighty, perhaps? Ninety? He was too tired to be sure. After a moment, he shrugged. “Longer than you would believe.”
“Has it changed much?”
The king straightened, waving his arm at the cramped farmland nestled between Lahmia and the hills at their back. “The last time I was here, this was a shanty town,” he said. “Or what was left of one. Refugees settled here from Mahrak and Lybaras after the war against the Usurper, but they’d been mostly chased off or had found lives inside the city by the time I was born. When the bandits chased all the farmers off the Golden Plain, the lucky ones managed to resettle here.” The farms were dark now, their inhabitants having fled yet again for the dubious safety of Lahmia’s walls.
Heru nodded towards the city. Columns of smoke, dull black against the grey predawn sky, rose from various quarters and wreathed the broad flanks of Lahmia’s central hill. “It looks like someone’s started ahead of us.”
Alcadizzar nodded. “Faisr’s people in the city tell me that Lahmia’s on the verge of revolt. After everything her citizens have suffered, Neferata will have a difficult time finding troops to man the walls.”
“All the better,” Heru said. “The Lybarans should be here by midday. If they work through the night tonight, they can have their catapults ready to fire by tomorrow. All we need do is wait for them to make a breach.”
Alcadizzar said nothing for a moment, his gaze fixed on the smoke-wreathed hill. He couldn’t yet see the walls of the palace that ringed its summit. Was Neferata there, standing atop the Temple of Blood and planning the destruction of his army?
“Faisr should already have pickets out,” he said. “Pass the word to him that I want the posts to the north-east doubled. Then tell the captains I want half the companies to get some rest, while the others make camp. We’ll switch them at noon and then start digging defensive positions.”
Heru frowned. “You think the Lahmians will try an attack?”
The king looked north-east, to the rolling ground beyond the city where Lahmia’s vast necropolis lay. “Neferata has little choice,” he replied. “If she hasn’t realised it yet, she will before long.”
The Rasetran let out a snort. “We’ve got the better part of thirty thousand men here, and more arriving every hour. If Neferata tries a sortie today, we’ll cut her to pieces.”
Alcadizzar glanced at his nephew, his expression sombre. “It’s not a daytime attack that I’m worried about.”
It took hours for a group of temple acolytes to prise away the mortar sealing the flagstones in the temple cellar and reveal the cavity beneath. The space was just large enough to hold a large, earthen grain jar, its wide mouth capped and sealed with lead.
Ankhat had followed Neferata’s commands to the letter, Ushoran thought, watching the acolytes grip the jar’s four thick handles and haul it out of the hole. The cellar was one of the smallest and deepest of the chamber’s storehouses and had been filled with everything from barrels of dried fish to bales of mouldy cotton. No one but rats had ventured there for years; even if the cellar had eventually been cleared out and put to another use, no one would have had any reason to suspect that anything had been buried beneath it. The Lord of Masks stole a glance at Ankhat, who stood above the hole and supervised the excavation with a tight, angry scowl on his face. He had been loudly, almost violently opposed to Ushoran’s plan, but Neferata had overridden him. The city had to be saved, regardless of the risks.
The acolytes set the jar on the cellar floor with a heavy thump and stood back, shoulders heaving. Ankhat dismissed them with a wave of his hand. The mortals bowed swiftly and withdrew, eager to return to the light and warmth of the upper levels.
Ushoran listened to the acolytes’ footsteps fade away down the corridor. Within moments, the immortals were alone. The Lord of Masks folded his arms, expecting Ankhat to vent his displeasure further, but the nobleman said not a word. Instead, he walked up to the jar and struck it with his fist.
The jar’s thick, curved side shattered beneath the blow, sending palm-sized fragments skipping across the flagstones. Wreathed in a thin veil of clay dust, Ankhat reached into the jar and dragged W’soran’s body free.
The necromancer’s skeletal body was filthy with dust and mould and had been folded into a foetal position in order to fit into the tight confines of the jar. The jagged end of the wooden shard that Neferata had used to stab him protruded from the back of his grimy robes.
Ankhat’s lip curled in disgust. He glared at Ushoran.
“There he is,” the immortal snapped. “You’re the one who wanted to free him, so you can do the rest.”
Ushoran gave Ankhat a disdainful stare, but went and knelt by W’soran’s body. Carefully, he gripped the necromancer’s fragile-looking arms and straightened them. Fabric crackled; dust puffed from wrists, shoulders and elbows. W’soran’s skin was as thin as parchment and his bones little more than twigs. He worked gingerly, fearing that they might snap off if he used too much force.
Once the arms were free, Ushoran straightened out the necromancer’s torso, until his body more or less lay flat. W’soran’s face was little more than a snarling death’s-head, his fangs bared in a tight-clenched grimace. The Lord of Masks stared into the necromancer’s desiccated face and paused. He vividly remembered another night, in another cellar, hundreds of years ago, when Lamashizzar had plucked the stone from Arkhan’s heart. He remembered the howl of madness as the immortal had clawed his way back to wakefulness, after having been paralysed for only a few months. W’soran had been trapped, fully aware, in the prison of his own mind for some twenty-two years. Would he have any sanity left?
The Lord of Masks reached out his hand and grasped the length of wood that jutted from W’soran’s ribs. He plucked it free with a quick jerk of the wrist and tossed it across the cellar.
A faint tremor went through W’soran’s bony frame. Ushoran settled back on his heels and waited for the howling to begin.
Moments later, the necromancer’s eyelids snapped open, and Ushoran found himself staring into W’soran’s dark, pitiless eyes. There was no madness there that Ushoran could see; just the cold, calculating intelligence of a serpent. Not a single sound escaped his ragged lips: no cry of terror, or anger, or relief. The lack of reaction chilled him far worse than Arkhan’s tortured howls ever did.
For the first time, Ushoran feared he’d made a terrible mistake. Did they dare place Nagash’s forbidden tomes into W’soran’s hands?
Did they have any other choice, Ushoran thought? They would need an army to defend the city from the invaders. If the living would not answer the call, then the dead would have to march in their place.