—<TWENTY-ONE>—

Fire in the Night

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

 

 

Screams and the tramping of running feet rose from the narrow streets that surrounded the royal palace. Lahmia had lapsed into a shocked silence when the rising sun revealed the vast army camped outside its walls; now, with the coming of night, the city was trying to tear itself apart once more. The City Watch was patrolling the streets in gangs, armed not with clubs but with bared blades, under orders to kill any citizen roaming the streets after dark.

Neferata’s high priestesses filed silently into her bedchamber as the last rays of the sun sank below the hills to the west. She did little more than sip from the proffered cup; just enough to quicken her limbs and whet her hunger to a razor’s edge. Silent and sombre, the masked thralls drew her gently from the bed. This was a duty they had not performed for many years, not since the escape of the Rasetran prince, and they went about their work with slow, almost ritualistic care.

Deft fingers plucked at Neferata’s stained clothes, peeling them away. Golden basins were brought in; they bathed her pale skin and then rubbed it with fragrant oils that had once been held sacred by the priestesses of Asaph. Neferata said nothing, her expression distant as she gazed out through the bedchamber’s tall windows at the restless sea. The striped sails of trading ships spread in a wide arc from the mouth of the harbour, fleeing eastwards on the receding tide.

The thralls wrapped her in robes of dark blue silk and bound them with a girdle of plain, woven leather. A spearman’s supple leather sandals were placed on her feet, secured in place by laced straps that reached as high as her knees.

When she was dressed, the priestesses guided her to a chair and began to work on her hair. Fingers teased and tugged at the mass of knots and tangles. Outside, darkness spread across the surface of the sea. By now, she knew, her warriors would be gathering at the city’s southern gate, and W’soran would have begun his preparations for the great ritual. The sands were slipping through the hourglass.

Neferata waved her hand at the thralls. “Time is wasting. If it won’t come loose, cut it off. I care not.”

The thralls paused. There was a faint murmur of voices and the hands drew away. Neferata steeled herself for the cold touch of the knife—but instead felt another pair of hands take up where the thralls had left off. Deft fingertips unwound one tangle after another, drawing it down around her shoulders and her back. The sensation brought back memories Neferata had buried long ago.

She turned her head slightly to the side. “Listening to me as I slept, again?”

The fingers paused for a moment. “No,” Naaima said quietly. “Not for a very long time.”

“What then?” Neferata demanded. “If you’ve come to gloat, then say your piece and be gone.”

“No,” Naaima said again. She resumed her work, pulling at a stubborn knot at the base of Neferata’s neck. “What’s done is done. I take no joy in seeing Lahmia brought to this.”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Neferata said bitterly. “It’s not your home.”

To the queen’s surprise, Naaima answered with a low chuckle. “Of course it is,” she said. “Lahmia has been my home since the day you set me free, all those years ago.”

Neferata looked away again, out into the darkness. “If only he had listened,” she said hollowly. “How different Nehekhara would be now.”

“It was not his fate,” Naaima replied. “Such things cannot be changed, no matter how we might wish it.”

Neferata fell silent. Frightened screams drifted on the sea breeze.

“Are you still angry with me?”

“No,” Naaima said. “Not anymore. Does that comfort you?”

“I no longer know the meaning of the word.” The queen sighed. “Why did you never ask to leave? Did you think I would have refused you?”

Naaima teased out the last of the knots and picked up a silver brush from the dressing table nearby. “Is it so hard to understand?” she said sadly. “Because I love you.”

“Then you have made a grave mistake.”

“As I said, we cannot change our fates,” Naaima replied. “Once upon a time, you gave me the world. Ever since, I have waited to give it back.” She put down the brush and came around to kneel at the queen’s side.

“Come with me to the east,” she said, taking Neferata’s cold hands in hers. “There is a ship waiting for us in the harbour. We can settle for a time in one of the trade cities, or leave them behind and travel the empire itself. Think of it—”

Neferata frowned. “You think I’d abandon Lahmia?” she said. The queen pulled her hands away. “My family has ruled this city for millennia.”

“All things end,” Naaima replied. “Come away with me. Please. When the sun rises tomorrow, Lahmia will be no more.”

The queen stared down at Naaima, peering into the depths of the immortal’s pleading eyes. Slowly, her expression hardened into a cold, defiant mask.

“Not while I still walk the earth,” Neferata said.

The queen rose from her chair and turned away from Naaima. The priestesses waited in silence, hands clasped at their waists, their expressions hidden behind their masks of gold.

She went to them, raising her arms as if in welcome. Next to them, laid out upon the silken bed, waited her armour of polished iron.

 

The view from the western gatehouse showed the invading army arrayed in a wide arc from north to south, their camps set in the fallow grain fields just a few dozen yards out of bowshot from the city walls. The darkness made it difficult to gauge the size of the host, but judging by the number of tents and cook-fires alone, W’soran reckoned that their numbers were vast—probably fifty thousand or more. For once, Neferata had shown a modicum of sense, the necromancer thought. Her pathetic excuse for an army wouldn’t have stood a chance against such a force.

W’soran ran his fingertips along the yellowed pages of the great tome cradled in his left hand and smiled possessively. The taste of vindication was sweet. Even trapped in the stifling darkness of his prison, he had known that this day would come. Now the forbidden tomes were his. The final secrets of the necromantic art lay within his grasp.

He turned away from the gatehouse’s narrow windows, satisfied that they would provide him with the vantage point he required. The large chamber dominated the upper storey of the gatehouse and normally served as a barracks and common room for the guardsmen who stood watch along the western wall. At Neferata’s command the wide, rectangular room had been emptied of cots, tables and chairs, and the guardsmen forbidden to enter on pain of death. A trio of thralls—Neferata’s possessions, which galled W’soran no end, but there was no time to create more of his own—waited at the far end of the room, ready to serve his every command. The bloodless corpses of two young men were piled in a heap near one of the chamber’s two doors, their faces contorted in masks of terror and pain.

The ritual circle had been inscribed on the floor in blood, copied exactly according to the notes and diagrams in Nagash’s tome. W’soran studied the complex incantation with an expectant smile. He had been waiting for this moment for centuries.

“Is all in readiness?”

The necromancer’s head jerked up in surprise. He hadn’t heard Neferata’s approach. The queen had entered through the door to his left, attended by her maidens. The former priestesses were a fearsome sight, clad in dark robes and leather armour reinforced with thin strips of iron. Fresh blood darkened their lips and dripped from their chins. The queen herself was more forbidding still: her torso was cased in a flexible breastplate of polished iron scales, a heavy skirt of leather banded with iron covered her from hips to knees. Hinged iron bracers encased her forearms, heavy enough to block swords and shatter bones. Her face and hands had been cleansed of filth and gleamed like marble in the torchlight. She was radiant, beautiful beyond compare, but her eyes held nothing but death. It was the first time he had seen her since that night in the sanctum, more than twenty years ago. He had looked forwards to the meeting eager to heap upon her all the bitterness and hate that had sustained him in his prison, but the sight of her now gave the necromancer pause.

“The circle is prepared,” he said curtly. “But the effects will be limited. The tombs of the nobility are warded with powerful spells of protection, which require more time to circumvent.”

A flicker of irritation crossed the queen’s face, but she nodded. “Very well,” Neferata said. “The enemy’s pickets have been slain. Ushoran waits in the necropolis, and Ankhat is leading the army through the south gate even now.”

Neferata strode to the gatehouse windows, surveying the battlefield. “And you will guide them from here?”

“It will serve,” W’soran replied.

“Then begin.”

The necromancer gave the queen a sepulchral smile. “As you command,” he said, and sketched a quick, faintly mocking bow. Neferata took no notice, her gaze fixed on the distant enemy.

No doubt searching for her lost prince, W’soran thought, his lip curling into a sneer as he turned his attention to the necromantic circle. With luck, he would find Alcadizzar first. How sweet it would be to present the queen with his still-beating heart.

W’soran took his place before the circle. His gaze fell to the incantation writ upon the page before him. Teeth bared in a death’s-head grin, he began the ritual of summoning.

 

* * *

 

The cook-fires of the enemy camp twinkled in the darkness, little more than a mile away. From where he stood on the rocky plain just outside Lahmia’s southern gate, Ankhat could only see perhaps a third of the enemy force, but even that seemed far larger than the small force under his command.

The last of the spear companies were marching down the coastal road, moving to take their place at the far end of the battle-line. The warriors were well armed, each man carrying an eight-foot spear and short sword, and wearing a shirt of iron scales over a thick leather tunic. In addition, each spearman bore a rectangular wooden shield with a round iron boss in the centre; in battle, each man would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his companions and form a solid wall of wood and metal to protect the formation from enemy attacks. Helmeted heads glanced his way as the company went by; the faces Ankhat saw were young and frightened. None of them had ever seen battle before. Would they remember their training when they came to grips with the enemy and the blood began to flow? Ankhat had his doubts. Most had answered the call because they had families in the city and knew that their loved ones would be punished if they didn’t obey.

The exception was the soldiers of the royal guard. A thousand men strong, they were clad in heavier armour and wielded fearsome, sickle-bladed polearms instead of spears. Most of them were from families whose sons had guarded the royal palace for generations and were given payment and privileges far above what a typical spearman received. Their courage and skill were unquestioned, as well as their devotion to the royal family. Ankhat had placed them in the centre of the battle-line, in hopes that their example would inspire the rest.

He had twenty-five thousand men in all, including lower, placing his palm against the ground, and felt the tremors quicken into a grinding, surf-like rumble.

He recognised it at once. It was the sound of stone scraping against stone, of hands pushing aside hundreds of mortuary slabs or forcing open long-sealed doors. An instant later the noise was echoing among the tombs as the risen dead burst from their resting places and lurched forth into the night.

Skeletal feet scraped and clicked over the rocky ground. Ushoran began to see figures moving stiffly among the tombs; bony shapes clad in rags and patches of grave mould, with pinpoints of greenish light gleaming in the depths of their eye sockets. They were the corpses of the city’s poor, laid to rest in crude stone mausoleums and bereft of the grave goods that Lahmia’s wealthy citizens were buried with. Though they bore no weapons and carried no armour, there were thousands of them, sweeping past Ushoran in a lurching, staggering tide, heading towards the unsuspecting enemy camp.

The Lord of Masks let out a low, hungry growl and let the tide carry him along. Behind him, the chilling cries of jackals filled the air, drawn by the smell of rotten flesh. They loped along in the wake of the skeletal army, jaws agape, as if sensing the carrion feast to come.

 

Horns sounded, echoing wildly from the north. Alcadizzar straightened, his dinner forgotten, wine cup halfway to his mouth.

Prince Heru sat bolt upright from the narrow cot where he’d been napping. Oil lamps filled the king’s campaign tent with warm, steady light; a trio of braziers had been lit to stave off the night’s chill. The Rasetran glanced sharply about, taking his bearings. “Those are our horns,” he said with growing alarm.

Alcadizzar nodded. He sat at one of the two large tables set to one side of the tent, where a large map depicting Lahmia and the surrounding area had been laid out and marked with the dispositions of the army. He’d been certain that a night attack was coming. Neferata had nothing to gain by holding the walls and letting her smaller force be decimated by weeks of fighting. A night attack, on the other hand, offered advantages. Aside from the potential of surprise, her troops would not have to worry as much about Alcadizzar’s archers and she and her monstrous allies could intervene directly in the fight.

There was also the danger of a simultaneous attack from the city’s necropolis. He had to assume that if Neferata could defy death, much like Nagash had done, then she could command the dead as well. Against that possibility, he had given the battle-hardened Rasetrans the job of securing the army’s left flank. In the centre, facing the city’s western gate—and the likeliest route of attack by the Lahmians—he had placed Ka-Sabar’s Iron Legion. On the right, close enough to offer support but otherwise out of the way, Alcadizzar had placed the troublesome Zandri infantry and mercenaries. The Numasi cavalry and the desert horsemen were held in reserve, as well as the Tomb Guard and the much smaller contingents of troops from Khemri and Mahrak.

Heru leapt to his feet, swiftly buckling on his sword. Outside, shouted orders and cries of alarm filled the air. “What in the name of the gods happened to our pickets?”

“Dead, most like,” Alcadizzar replied. “The night belongs to Neferata and her ilk. Or so they think.” He studied the map one last time, committing the placement of units to memory, then rose and pulled his own sword from its hook on the nearest tent-pole.

“Let’s not waste time on what’s gone wrong,” the king continued. “We suspected something like this was going to happen. Remember the battle plan.” Buckling on his sword, he rushed to the tent flap. “Runner!” he called.

In moments, a young boy from Khemri appeared, his eyes wide with excitement. “Yes, great one?”

“Get to the Lybarans and tell them to get their catapults to work on the left flank. Go!”

The boy bowed quickly and dashed from the tent, narrowly avoiding Faisr, who was rushing to find the king. The great chieftain’s face was grim.

“The left flank is under attack,” he said. “Lahmia’s necropolis has given up its dead, and they are marching on us in vast numbers!”

Alcadizzar had never heard Faisr sound worried in his entire life. The realisation sent a chill down the king’s spine, but he tried to remember old Jabari’s teachings and push the fear aside. “Take your riders and flank the corpses,” he said, in as steady a tone as he could muster. “Find the sorcerer that’s controlling them. Go!”

The great chieftain nodded curtly and hurried back out into the night. Alcadizzar turned to Heru. “Let’s go!”

“Us? Oh, no,” Heru protested, placing a hand on his uncle’s arm. “I’m going to go lead my people. Your place is here.” Without giving Alcadizzar a chance to reply, he brushed past and shoved the tent flap aside. “I’ll send a report on the situation as soon as I’m able. Just get those Lybarans moving, eh?”

“I will,” the king said, but before he could say any more, Heru was gone.

Alcadizzar clenched his fists. Off to the north, he could hear the faint roar of battle. The sound called to him, setting his blood afire. With a frustrated sigh, he went back to the map table and studied the positions of his troops.

Just then came another wave of trumpet calls—this time, however, from the south. Alcadizzar’s eyes widened.

“Runner!” he called again. His carefully prepared plan was threatening to come apart at the seams.

 

Just ahead of Ushoran, a man was brought down by a trio of skeletons. The warrior fell with a shout, slashing wildly with his sword and shearing off several ribs from the nearest corpse. The skeleton took no notice, its finger-bones clawing deep into the warrior’s throat. Arterial blood jetted into the air. The second corpse pulled the sword from the dying man’s hand and the trio continued on, seeking another victim.

The undead horde flooded into the enemy camp in a silent, shambling tide of bone, tearing apart anyone and anything that got in their way. The enemy fled before them, bellowing and cursing in fear. Those that stood their ground and tried to fight were quickly overwhelmed. Here and there, tents were afire, bathing the battleground in garish crimson light. Off to Ushoran’s right there was a blaze of sparks as a skeleton kicked its way through an abandoned cook-fire and kept going, its rotting clothes burning greasily about its legs and waist.

Ushoran threw back his head and howled like one of the hungry spirits of the waste. He thirsted for the taste of hot, bitter blood.

There was another line of tents up ahead. Several skeletons had already reached them and were clawing at their sides. Beyond them, Ushoran heard a throaty roar of challenge; the Rasetrans had finally chosen to turn and make a stand. Grinning evilly, the immortal picked up speed, loping past the slower skeletons, between the tents, and into the open ground on the other side.

The Lord of Masks let out a grunt of surprise. Some twenty yards past the nearest tents was a long, somewhat irregular line of barricades, formed of tall wicker baskets filled with packed earth and rock.

The Rasetrans had formed up behind the barricades, thousands strong; firelight flickered balefully off a thicket of spear-points that stretched as far as Ushoran’s eye could see.

It was a sight that would have given the stoutest heart pause. But not the dead; the skeletons looked upon the enemy line and were unmoved. The horde came on, filling the open ground before the barricades and throwing itself against the enemy line. Spears jabbed and thrust, but could find no purchase. Fearless, mindless, the undead clawed at the earth-filled baskets, climbing onto them and reaching for the warriors on the other side. Men shouted oaths and struck at the corpses with spear butts, or the metal-rimmed edges of their shields. Smashed limbs and broken skulls were hurled back upon the oncoming tide, but the advance never faltered.

For the moment, the enemy line was holding, smashing apart the corpses as they clambered onto the barricade. Snarling hungrily, Ushoran broke into a run. Calling upon the power in his veins, he gathered himself and leapt like a cat, clearing the struggling mass of skeletons and coming down on the far side of the barricade. Two men fell screaming underneath the immortal; a spear punched through his hip and the wooden haft snapped in two. Ushoran felt nothing but a savage, bloodthirsty joy. With a sweep of his hand he tore a man’s guts out and hurled his screaming body high into the air. Another blow crumpled a warrior’s helmet and pulped the skull beneath.

Shouts, screams and curses thundered in Ushoran’s ears. The enemy charged in from all sides, jabbing at him with their spears. Laughing wickedly, the immortal swept the weapons aside like twigs, clawing for the soft flesh behind them. Leather and armour tore like cloth beneath his talons. The scent of blood filled his nostrils.

Roaring like a hungry lion, the immortal plunged deeper into the mass of screaming warriors, sowing terror and death as he went.

 

The barbarian came at Ankhat with a furious bellow, eyes wild and bearded mouth agape. He was a giant, like all the men of the far north, broad of shoulder and thick of limb, clad in a heavy leather tunic and protected by a wooden shield the size of a chariot wheel. The northman brandished a fearsome, single-bladed battle axe in his knobby fist, drawn back to strike at the immortal’s head.

He might have been trudging through wet sand, as far as Ankhat was concerned. The immortal darted forwards just as the axe fell, its blade tracing a broad, languid arc. His sword flashed upwards, chopping through the barbarian’s thick wrist, then down again in a backhand stroke that smashed the northman’s hip. The warrior crumpled, his bold yell transformed into a scream of mortal agony.

The barbarians threw themselves at the advancing battle-line without thought to order or discipline. They came charging out of the darkness of the camp in ragged mobs, smashing bodily into the shield wall and hewing at the heads and shoulders of their foes. Many times they were struck through by spears at the moment of impact, but the pain of their injuries only made them fight the harder. Men fell screaming, clutching at split skulls or ruined faces, or struggling to stanch the blood pouring from gaping throats. Others pressed forwards, filling the gaps in the line, and the companies continued to advance.

Another brute rushed at Ankhat, bloodshot eyes glaring hatefully over the rim of his shield. The immortal fixed the barbarian with a haughty stare and bared his fangs; the northman pulled up short, shouting in terror.

Ankhat took off the top of his head with a single, swift stroke. More of the mercenaries crashed into the line of guardsmen to the immortal’s right; men grunted and cursed, hacking at the giants with their polearms.

“Forwards!” Ankhat cried, adding his own voice to the din. Trumpets were pealing up and down the battle-line, urging the men onwards. The immortal cut the legs out from under a charging barbarian, then stabbed the throat of another who was locked in battle with the guardsman to his left. He had lost track of the number of foes he’d slain since the advance began. Twenty? Thirty? They all blurred together in a magnificent haze of screams and spilled blood. Part of him longed to leave the slow-moving companies behind and truly indulge his hunger. What a slaughter he might have wrought then!

Now, abruptly, the tide had shifted. The barbarians were withdrawing, racing back towards the camp at the bellowing sound of deep-throated horns. The Lahmians, flush with success, flung insults and jeers at the retreating mercenaries. Ankhat, whose eyes were far keener in the dark, saw why; the enemy had finally managed to restore some order in the camp and the rest of the northmen had been formed together in something approaching a proper battle-line, some twenty yards away. As the Lahmians approached, they roared in challenge, striking their weapons against their shields and sending up a thunderous clatter of metal and wood.

Ankhat grinned hungrily, levelling his sword at the enemy. “At them!” he commanded, and the guardsmen shouted in answer. He turned to the trumpeter beside him. “Signal the chariots to advance and wheel right!”

Here was the moment that they would break the northmen. Ankhat sensed it in his bones, like a lion studying his prey. They must have squandered almost half their number already; what remained couldn’t hold once the chariots took them in the flank. The barbarians would break and run, leaving the centre of the enemy army dangerously exposed.

Ankhat growled in anticipation of the bloodshed that would follow.

 

The young messenger was pale and trembling. Ochre dust and streaks of someone else’s blood caked his bare forearms and calves. He’d been out on the battlefield less than thirty minutes.

“Rasetra is-is giving ground,” the boy said, his voice hitching as he gasped for breath. “The-the barricades on the r-right have been overrun. The-the dead are walking, and-and worse—”

Alcadizzar bit back his impatience. The boy was only twelve or so, he reminded himself. There were horrors walking the field that few grown men could face, let alone a mere boy. He gripped the child’s arm reassuringly.

“Put that aside, lad,” he said, in as persuasive a tone as he could muster. “You’re a soldier in the army now. I need you to do your duty. Do you understand?”

The messenger drew in a deep breath and visibly calmed himself. “Y-yes, great one. I understand.”

“Good. Then show me on the map here where Prince Heru’s troops are.”

The boy nodded. “They’re here, more or less,” he said, tracing an arc that roughly paralleled the line of barricades, but was anywhere from seventy-five to a hundred yards behind them.

Alcadizzar gritted his teeth. Another hundred yards and the attackers would be at the edge of the inner camp. “Can Prince Heru hold them?”

The messenger paused, consulting his memory. “He said that they are outnumbered and making a fighting withdrawal, and need reinforcements urgently. He also told me to ask you where the damned catapults were. He said to tell you in those words.”

“I can well believe that,” Alcadizzar said. He’d already sent two more messengers to get the Lybarans’ weapons in action. What was the point of dragging them halfway across eastern Nehekhara if they weren’t put to use? “Well done,” he said absently, his gaze poring over the battle map. “Have the servants give you a cup of wine and catch your breath.”

As the messenger withdrew, the king took stock of the situation. Zandri had sent urgent messages saying they were under heavy attack from the south-east, but Alcadizzar didn’t know how much stock to put in the reports. Meanwhile, on the left flank, Rasetra was in grave peril. Ka-Sabar, however, reported that the centre, facing the city’s closest gate, was silent.

What was Neferata up to? Where was the main threat? Was it the attack on the left, or on the right, or was there something else entirely that he’d overlooked? He longed to grab a horse and go review the battlefield for himself, but he knew that would only complicate things further. It was just like one of Jabari’s maddening exercises—only this time, his orders were getting real men killed.

Alcadizzar sighed. He needed to re-orient his troops to deal with the threats to his flanks. Ka-Sabar’s heavy infantry could be wheeled around to support Rasetra, but that would leave the centre wide open. Did he dare take the risk?

He didn’t see much choice. The threat to the centre was pure speculation, while the ones on the flanks were all too real.

Alcadizzar motioned to three of the messengers who were waiting quietly just inside the tent. He pointed to the first one. “Carry this message to Queen Omorose. Tell her that the Numasi must counter-attack on the right. Swing wide and take the enemy in the flank. Go!”

As the boy rushed out into the night, Alcadizzar turned to the second messenger. “Go to the reserves. The forces of Khemri and Mahrak are to move up and hold the centre. Ride with them; when they are in position, inform King Aten-sefu that the Iron Legion is to pull back and support Prince Heru on the left.”

The second boy nodded hastily and raced outside. The king studied the map and nodded to himself. It was a risk, but a calculated one. He still had the Tomb Guard in reserve, just in case.

Alcadizzar reached out and gripped the third messenger’s arm. “Go to the Lybarans. Tell them to get their cursed machines working, or I’ll head back there myself and start firing them at the Lahmians.”

 

Farther west, at the rear of the enemy camp, there was a sudden flare of bluish light. Moments later, a half-dozen globes of fire were hurled skywards, arcing over the invaders’ tents before plunging to the ground off to the north-east. The balls of pitch exploded on impact, showering the area with hungry blue flames. Scores of slow-moving, lurching corpses were caught in the blasts, their rotting flesh sizzling and their bones cracking in the intense heat.

W’soran watched the battle unfolding from the safety of the gatehouse and hissed in satisfaction. The ritual had worked to perfection; he could feel the vast horde moving along the plain below, as though his mind were bound to each and every one by an invisible gossamer cord. There were thousands of them, far more than the pitiful display the mortal defenders of the city could manage, and they were eating their way deep into the enemy’s flank. The bursts of fire only served to better illuminate how desperate the enemy’s position was; now he could see that his undead slaves had overrun a long line of barricades and driven the mortals back almost as far as the inner core of the camp. No doubt that little fool, Alcadizzar, was somewhere in there, frantically trying to find a way out of the noose that was tightening around his neck.

Still more globes of pitch fell among the undead host. More skeletons fell, consumed by the flames, but they felt no pain at their demise and neither did W’soran. He could lose many hundreds more and scarcely feel the loss. There would be more than enough to complete the destruction of the invaders.

As the globes of burning pitch passed over the camp, W’soran noted a commotion in the centre of the enemy’s positions. Armoured troops were pulling back and heading to the north, undoubtedly in a vain attempt to save the doomed flank. All that remained in the centre were a few companies of lightly armoured troops.

The necromancer smiled mirthlessly, revelling in his new-found power. He turned to Neferata, who stood with her retinue of maidens at a window to his right. “They are growing desperate,” he croaked. “Soon their troops will grow tired, while mine will not. They will give in to their fear, while mine feel none. They cannot hope to win.”

Neferata studied the panoramic spectacle of the battlefield. If she’d heard W’soran, she gave no sign. Her eyes were distant, her expression grave. “The time has come,” she said coldly. The queen glanced over at the necromancer. “You have done well. Press the attack upon the right. I will deal with Alcadizzar.”

W’soran gave a deep, slightly mocking bow. “Of course,” he said. “I should have expected no less. And what will you do when you find him?”

There was no reply. When he straightened, the queen and her maidens were gone.

 

* * *

 

The man’s head came away with a crunch of cartilage and a torrent of blood. Ushoran flung the grisly trophy at the enemy battle-line, then bent to drink deeply from the liquid still jetting from the corpse’s neck.

Balls of fire hissed overhead, plunging well behind Ushoran and among the rear ranks of the undead. The noise of battle rang in his ears and beat at the bones in his chest; a grinding, surf-like roar of shouts, screams and hoarse battle cries. The enemy line was giving ground slowly but steadily, being forced ever backwards in the direction of the centre of camp. Somehow, their discipline held together despite the relentless pressure of the skeletal horde. Twice now they had launched counter-attacks with chariots in hopes of breaking up the undead advance, but the walking dead simply shrugged off the losses and pressed onwards with single-minded intent.

Ushoran’s muscular arms and torso were matted with gore. Blood and bits of flesh drooled from his gaping jaws. Never, in all his long existence, had he imagined anything so glorious as this. He’d killed hundreds of men in the space of the last hour, smashing, clawing, biting and tearing in an orgy of bloodletting and slaughter. All the many nights he’d spent in cellars across Lahmia, drawing out the pleasure of a screaming victim’s death agonies… it paled in comparison to this.

The Lord of Masks tossed the headless body aside. His body was near to bursting with vigour. Laughing cruelly, he advanced on the enemy line once again. The enemy warriors in front of him shouted and screamed, recoiling at his approach; many of them had been given ample opportunity to witness what he was capable of. Several flung spears at him, which he batted carelessly aside.

Snarling, Ushoran broke into a run. He wasn’t interested in foot soldiers any longer; this time, he meant to find the man commanding this rabble and tear him to pieces.

Just short of the enemy’s front rank he gathered his energies and bounded into the air. The battle-line was much thinner than when the battle began; he cleared the remaining ranks with ease and landed on the other side.

There were wounded men everywhere; soldiers who had staggered out of the battle-line and were trying to tend their injuries. Ushoran tore into them with savage glee, savouring their screams as he ripped into them with claw and tooth. As he did so, he searched for men on horseback, who would be riding behind the battle-line and shouting orders or encouragement.

There! Off to his right, some fifty yards away, a large group of horsemen was moving in his direction. Some carried torches, perhaps to draw the eye of the soldiers more easily. Among them he could see a fluttering standard; no doubt the enemy leader on this part of the battlefield. Like a hungry lion he charged at the oncoming riders, letting out a guttural roar as he approached.

The sound had the desired effect. The horsemen scattered before him, spreading out left and right with surprising speed. Directly ahead, Ushoran could see the enemy standard and a group of armoured riders surrounding it. The riders stood their ground, drawing their swords and grimly preparing to receive his charge.

A powerful impact struck him in the side, hard enough to stagger him. Ushoran reached down and felt the thick stub of an arrow jutting from his ribs. Two more missiles struck him in the left leg, knocking it out from underneath him. He fell, tumbling, and still more arrows hissed past his head.

Ushoran was on his feet in an instant. Horses were dashing past him to the left and right, their riders aiming powerful horn bows at him. He realised with a shock that they weren’t proper cavalry, but robed desert riders. They fired at him as they went by and nearly every missile found its mark. In seconds, he was struck no less than eight times, in his chest, abdomen and arms.

The immortal scarcely felt the pain. Snarling, he snatched at the shafts, trying to yank them free, but the heads were barbed and refused to pull away. Worse, each arrow seemed to have a bulb of clay just behind the barbed head; when it struck the target, the bulb shattered, covering the area with a patch of sticky fluid the size of his palm. The sharp reek of the substance filled his nostrils at once. Pitch.

Ushoran’s joy was transformed to terror in the space of an instant. Two more arrows hit him—one dangerously close to his heart. He whirled about, seeking an avenue of escape.

Two more riders thundered past. Too late, Ushoran saw the torches guttering in their hands. The Lord of Masks had just enough time to scream before his body was enveloped in a sizzling column of flame.

 

“Forwards! Forwards, damn you!”

A Nehekharan spearman reached over the top of the wicker barricade and stabbed at Ankhat. The immortal knocked the point aside with his sword and crushed the man’s skull with a quick, backhand stroke. Around him, the warriors of the royal guard were hacking at the barricade’s defenders with their polearms, but making little headway.

Ankhat was furious. Just half an hour before he’d thought victory lay in his grasp. They’d met the barbarian battle-line and held the fools in place while the chariots swung around and struck them in the flank. Panic had taken hold and the mercenaries had turned and run. Exultant, Ankhat had let the Lahmians pursue their broken foes and they had slaughtered the lumbering northmen as they fled.

And then, without warning, the charging Lahmians had come upon the barricade. A fresh line of troops—Nehekharans this time, not wild-eyed barbarians, waited with spears and bows, and unleashed a fierce volley of shafts point-blank into the faces of the oncoming Lahmians. Fortunately for Ankhat’s men, the sheer inertia of their charge carried them into the enemy fortifications before they had time to register their shock. Had they time to think, the tired troops might have broken under the storm of arrow fire.

But now the attack had bogged down. Ankhat’s men were tired and the enemy fresh, and they defended the barricade with dogged determination. He had tried to signal the chariots to find the end of the fortifications and swing around it, but could not be sure if the message had been received or not.

Furious, the immortal prepared to make another leap onto the barricade. He’d tried three times before but had been thrown back. Enemy spears had struck him twice, but hadn’t managed to pierce his vitals.

The royal guardsmen were attacking the enemy with great courage, but even they were beginning to falter. Something had to be done, and quickly, or all would be lost.

Thinking quickly, Ankhat sheathed his sword and took hold of the wicker basket in front of him. It was almost as tall as a man and packed with hundreds of pounds of dirt and stone; he dug his fingers deep into its woven surface and summoned up all of his strength. With a savage cry he heaved the basket into the air and onto the defenders, who fell back with shouts of dismay.

The barricade was two baskets wide. At once, Ankhat pushed forwards and seized the next as well. A spear jabbed at him from the left, scoring his cheek, but the immortal paid it no heed. He grabbed the basket and flung it skywards just like the first, creating a narrow gap in the enemy’s defences.

Suddenly, far off to the left, came the sound of trumpets. Ankhat felt a surge of savage joy. The chariots had come through at last! But then he realised that the sounds were coming from the Lahmian side of the barricade, rather than the opposite, and the signals were not ones that he was familiar with.

His bloodlust called to him to press forwards, but his instincts said that something had gone very wrong. The enemy pushed forwards, trying to seal off the breach. Gritting his teeth, Ankhat fell back, drawing his sword once more.

Now more horns were sounding to his left. These signals he knew and the sound caused his heart to sink. The spear companies on his flank were sounding the retreat!

Ankhat turned and shoved his way through the ranks of his own guardsmen. He had to see what was happening. Dragging his trumpeter with him, he made his way to the rear of the formation and peered into the darkness.

What he saw filled him with anger and dismay. The plain to the south was full of warriors, racing back in the direction of the city. Horsemen were charging through their midst, cutting down the fleeing men with spear or sword.

Ankhat understood what had happened in an instant. Enemy cavalry had counter-attacked in great numbers, scattering his chariots and striking his spearmen in the flank, just as they had done to the barbarians. The inexperienced soldiers had panicked and the result was a rout.

The attack had failed. There was no way his surviving companies could press forwards with enemy cavalry sweeping around behind him. Now he had to focus on getting back inside the city before he was completely surrounded.

Ankhat quickly took stock of the situation. There was no chance of reaching the south gate—the terrain favoured the cavalry, allowing them to outmanoeuvre the retreating infantry and cut them off. Their only hope was to pull back and withdraw to the north-east, hoping to reach the city’s western gate.

They’d done all they could, Ankhat thought bitterly. It was up to W’soran and his undead warriors now.

 

Alcadizzar glanced up as the tent flap was pulled aside. Faisr rushed into the tent, beckoning to the servants for a cup of wine. “You sent the Iron Legion just in time,” he said, taking the offered cup and draining it to the dregs. “Another few minutes and we would have been lost.”

“Prince Heru?” the king inquired.

“Still fighting with his kinsmen. The Rasetrans are a courageous bunch, I’ll say that for them. They’ve paid a steep price in blood tonight, and the fighting’s not done.”

Alcadizzar pointed at the map. “I just got a message from Omorose. The Numasi have broken the attack on the right. How bad are things on the left?”

“Bad.” Faisr shook his head. “The dead just keep coming. You kill one and three more take their place.”

“What about the necromancer? Can’t you find him?”

The chieftain shook his head. “He’s not out there. Some brave souls even circled around the horde and searched the necropolis. We found one of the monsters leading the horde and hurt him badly, maybe even destroyed him. It didn’t make any difference.”

The king turned his attention back to the map, frowning thoughtfully. “He has to be out there somewhere,” he mused. “Everything Rakh-amn-hotep wrote about the undead is that the risen corpses can’t think for themselves. They have to be guided by the necromancer who raised them. So he has to be in a place where he can see enough of the battlefield to give them proper commands.”

At that moment, a wide-eyed messenger stumbled into the tent. Gasping for breath, he bowed to Alcadizzar. It took a moment for the king to understand that the boy was from Khemri and thus one of his subjects.

“Great one! The centre is under attack!”

Alcadizzar straightened. “Attacked? How? By what?”

“Creatures!” the boy said. “Pale creatures in armour, with the faces of women.”

The king gave Faisr a knowing glance. “How many?”

“I-I don’t know! Four or five, perhaps. But they’re killing everyone! Killing them, or driving them mad. The Devoted have lost many men already.”

“Where did they come from?”

“The-the western gatehouse, we think. Some say they jumped right off the city wall, as though it was nothing more than a stepping-stool!”

Alcadizzar began to see what was happening. Neferata had been watching the battle unfold from the gatehouse, gauging his response. The attacks on the left and right had both been feints, meant to weaken the centre. Now she had entered the fray—and he knew where she was heading.

The king rose to his feet. “Gather your people,” he said to Faisr. “We’re going to finish this.” Then he beckoned to two of his messengers. “You, fetch my horse,” he said to one young boy. “And you, I want you to carry a message to the Lybarans as fast as you can.”

 

Neferata and her maidens walked beneath the moonlight and chaos and death rode in their wake.

They came upon the enemy battle-lines like wives welcoming their husbands home from battle; arms outstretched, faces lit with desire. Men looked upon their faces and lost all control. Some fled screaming, while still others turned their blades on their fellows in a mad fit of jealousy and passion. The few men of iron will who could not be swayed, who remembered their oaths and tried to put an end to Neferata and her maidens, were torn apart by the immortals’ talons.

A company of javelin throwers charged at Neferata and let fly; white-robed priests from Mahrak leapt between her and the oncoming missiles, screaming in horror even as they shielded her with their bodies. A moment later the javelin throwers had drawn their short swords and were locked in combat with a company of spearmen, warriors whom they had perhaps shared a meal with just a few hours before. Their faces were contorted into masks of agony and disbelief. They knew that what they were doing was wrong, but were powerless to stop it.

Within minutes, the queen and her maidens became separated by the wild melee. Neferata would catch glimpses of them from time to time, walking calmly among the slaughter like the eye of a raging summer storm. They moved steadily westwards, towards the centre of the camp. The place where, she was sure, Alcadizzar waited. At long last, she would see him again.

A quartet of chariots came rumbling out of the darkness, heading straight for her. The queen met the gaze of the driver in the lead chariot. The man’s eyes widened, his expression suddenly transformed from anger to utter, mindless desire. He cast a jealous glance over his shoulder at the other charioteers, and with a snarl, he hauled upon the reins. The chariot veered sharply right, into the path of those behind it, causing a horrendous collision. Horses fell, shrieking in fear and pain, and the air was filled with pieces of broken wood and broken men.

Miraculously, the driver of the lead chariot survived. He staggered to his feet, blood pouring from his face and from a deep cut on his arm. The man rushed to Neferata, hands reaching for her face. Without breaking stride she caught the man’s wrists and pulled him close, tearing out his throat with a single, vicious bite.

Slingstones buzzed through the air like angry bees. Several struck sparks off Neferata’s iron scales; another buried itself in her forehead with a dull, smacking sound. Grimacing irritably, she plucked the round stone free with thumb and fingertip and tossed it aside.

Off to her left, a woman screamed. Neferata turned to see one of her maidens stagger, clutching at a javelin that had struck her in the heart. Men rushed to her as she fell; several began hacking at her body with their swords, while the others fought to possess her. Even in death—the true death—she continued to spread havoc among the enemy.

Minutes later, another maiden fell, this time crushed to pulp beneath the weight of a tumbling chariot. By now, panic and confusion had taken hold and most of the enemy were fleeing in terror, racing back towards the centre of camp. Five women had broken the hearts and minds of thousands of warriors in a matter of minutes.

Neferata watched the enemy roll away from her in a swift tide, leaving behind a field littered with fallen weapons, helmets and shields. The queen laughed mockingly, delighted at the ruination of her foes. Alcadizzar had underestimated her power and now all of Nehekhara would pay the price.