—<TWENTY-FOUR>—

The Last Light of Day

Khemri, the Living City, in the 110th year of Djaf the Terrible
(-1163 Imperial Reckoning)

Heads turned as Inofre, King Alcadizzar’s Grand Vizier, led the small procession of nobles down the length of Settra’s Court. Though it was late afternoon, the resplendent throne room was still crowded with petitioners and embassies from the far corners of Alcadizzar’s empire, from the horse lords of Numas to the merchant princes of distant Bel Aliad. They had been waiting for hours to speak with the great king; with the evening drawing on, most would be turned away until the morrow. For the moment, however, all eyes were upon the tall, handsome lord who followed after Inofre and the three strange, iron-bound chests carried by the noblemen who trailed in the lord’s wake.

Alcadizzar straightened slightly on Settra’s ancient throne as the procession approached the dais, dragging his mind away from worries about the trade negotiations that were planned for later that night. He’d only returned from Numas that morning, reviewing the new irrigation plan that they hoped would restore the city’s parched grain fields. He was tired beyond words and his body was a mass of aches—particularly the ribs that Neferata had broken, some thirty-seven years ago. They never had healed quite right, despite the best efforts of the chirurgeons.

Thirty-seven years, he thought, suppressing a grimace. Where had the time gone?

The king stole a guilty glance to his right. Khalida sat upon her throne, serene as always, her left hand resting upon Alcadizzar’s right. They had instituted the tradition upon their marriage, moving her throne from its customary place—set further to the right and two steps lower than the king’s—and placed them side by side. Her hand upon his was meant to signify that they ruled Khemri jointly, that her opinion counted for as much as his.

The touch of her fingers was light and cool, as though Khalida was loath to rest the full weight of her hand upon his. Things had been strained between them for a long time now, ever since the last war with Zandri, some five years ago. The expansion northwards into the barbarian lands over the past two decades had provided more lucrative routes for the slave trade that had once made the coastal city so wealthy. When Alcadizzar had finally conquered the bellicose city after a lengthy and difficult campaign, he discovered that their coffers were completely empty and the citizens on the verge of starvation. King Rakh-an-atum had taken ship with many of Zandri’s nobles and fled to parts unknown, leaving Alcadizzar in possession of a city on the verge of anarchy. Since then, he had spent much of his time there, helping to restore order and improve the lives of its citizens, leaving Khalida to return to Khemri and manage the city’s affairs alone.

Holding the empire together demanded more from him with every passing year. In the beginning, the horrors of what his fellow rulers had seen at Lahmia and the threat posed by Nagash had been a potent force for unity, allowing him to forge powerful alliances based on mutual defence and free trade. Free at last from Lahmia’s crippling economic policies, the great cities flourished. Alcadizzar invested his city’s wealth as wisely as he could, returning Khemri to its former glory. Vast amounts of coin were spent on improving roads across the entire country, and connecting east and west via trade along the River Vitae. The great collegia at Lybaras were restored and then similar centres of learning were founded in Khemri as well. Scholar-engineers were put to work creating methods of irrigation that drew water from the Vitae and restored arable land that had been reclaimed by the desert centuries earlier.

As Khemri’s fortunes rose, Alcadizzar made certain that the rest of Nehekhara’s fortunes rose as well. Peace and prosperity brought stability, and increased his influence over the entire land. What started as an alliance grew into a confederation of cities, then a short-lived commonwealth, and then, after a combination of statecraft and military manoeuvring, into an empire. Through it all, though, Ophiria’s warning remained uppermost in his mind. Everything he did, ultimately, was geared towards preparing the land for Nagash’s eventual return.

Those preparations grew a little more difficult with every passing year. The memories of Lahmia had faded with time. Now there were powerful men around the empire who had begun to chafe under the elaborate—and expensive—military obligations they were compelled to maintain. There were even whispers that perhaps Nagash’s interests had turned elsewhere and no longer posed a threat to Nehekhara. Some even went so far as to allude that Nagash had never been a threat at all, but merely a potent fiction that Alcadizzar had used to gain control of the great cities. He found himself travelling more, visiting cities and speaking directly to the nobles who lived there, reminding them of their shared duty to defend the land. So far, the tactic was working, but at what cost?

Alcadizzar reached over and touched Khalida’s hand, brushing the smooth skin with his fingertips. He smiled. His wife glanced over, stirred from some reverie of her own and managed a strained smile before looking away again.

The king frowned, trying to think of something to say, but was interrupted by Inofre’s voice.

“Great one,” the Grand Vizier intoned, “your loyal subject Rahotep, Lord of the Delta and Seeker of Mysteries, has returned in accordance with your commands and wishes to give an account of his efforts in the lands of the barbarians.”

Alcadizzar pushed his fears aside and summoned up a warm smile for the nobleman standing at the foot of the dais. “Of course,” he said. “Welcome home, Lord Rahotep. This is a pleasant surprise; unless I am mistaken, your expedition was not expected back for another two weeks.”

Rahotep bowed to the king and smiled in return. The two men shared the same interests in learning and exploration, and had been friends for many years. The young lord was a famous adventurer, renowned throughout Nehekhara for his travels to the far corners of the world. Thanks to his efforts, Nehekhara’s northern border now extended for hundreds of leagues past Numas and had opened valuable trade routes with the barbarian tribes beyond the World’s Edge Mountains.

“The past winter was a mild one,” Rahotep answered, “and the mountain passes opened sooner than expected.”

He turned and beckoned his retainers forwards. “It also helped that I was halfway through the mountains when the snows began to thaw.”

Alcadizzar leaned forwards, his eyes widening. Rahotep had his undivided interest now. “You met with the annu-horesh?”

The fabled explorer swept out his hands and made a dramatic bow. “I enjoyed their hospitality for the entire winter,” he said proudly. “They have showed me wonders beyond compare, and offered us assurances of friendship and trade.”

Excited murmurs swept through the court. The annu-horesh—literally, the mountain-lords—had been discovered by Rahotep more than a decade ago, but the stout, bearded folk had been slow to warm to the Nehekharans. The barbarians who lived at the foot of the mountains regarded them with awe and spoke of their surpassing skill as warriors and craftsmen.

“Their king, Morgrim Blackbeard, sent you these gifts, as a gesture of his respect,” Rahotep said. With a flourish, he opened the first chest and drew out the most magnificent sword that Alcadizzar had ever seen. It was a huge, two-handed khopesh, but Rahotep held the blade as though it weighed no more than a river-reed. Its edge looked keen enough to cut stone; the metal had a sheen to it like molten gold. The weapon caught the light of the braziers and shone like the morning sun. Gasps of wonder echoed throughout the hall.

Alcadizzar stared at the sword in wonder. “What is it made of?”

“Iron,” Rahotep said, “but made into something far lighter and stronger than anything our smiths can forge.” He laid a hand gently against the flat of the blade. “The true magic lies in the way the blade was washed in gold. The bond radiates heat and light, and is anathema to the evils that dwell in the darkness.”

The explorer indicated the remaining chests. “There is armour as well, shaped by the same processes. Truly a gift for the greatest of Nehekharan kings.”

“Beautiful,” the king agreed. “It’s a great shame that my sons could not be here to see it. Prince Asar is hunting with his uncle in the desert and Prince Ubaid—”

“Asar and my father are in Ka-Sabar now, as guests of King Aten-sefu,” Khalida interjected coolly. “And Ubaid’s interests run to horses and hawks these days.”

The queen’s tone stung Alcadizzar. “Of course. Hawks and horses. How forgetful of me.” The king sighed inwardly and beckoned to a group of robed men standing off to the right of the dais. They wore metal skullcaps, like priests, and gripped staffs of cedar or sandalwood.

“Suleiman,” the king called. “What do you make of this?”

A tall, dignified, older man stepped forwards, joining Rahotep and peering closely at the blade for several moments. He reached out and lightly touched the sword, just as the explorer had done, and his eyebrows rose. “Truly a marvel,” he said to the king. “A form of elemental sorcery unlike anything we have seen before. There are no runes in its shaping; it is as though the very essence of the sun has been worked into the metal.”

Alcadizzar nodded sagely, even though his knowledge of magic was still very limited. The knowledge had been brought to Nehekhara from the far north, by intrepid sailors and explorers like Lord Rahotep, and given to learned men to emulate and master. In the first decade of his reign, Alcadizzar had founded a collegium of magic in Khemri, knowing full well that the other cities would waste no time creating their own. Without the gifts that had once been granted them by the gods, it was imperative that the Nehekharans find new sources of power to counter Nagash’s foul magic. The forges at Ka-Sabar were making small amounts of enchanted arms and armour each year now, which were purchased and stored in armouries across the land.

Rahotep smiled at the king. “The mountain-lords save their runes for truly powerful weapons,” he said. “Morgrim swore to me that a blade like this requires no great skill to make.”

“Indeed?” the king said. “Then would the mountain-lords be willing to teach us how to make them?”

The explorer spread his hands. “It’s possible. King Morgrim has invited you to be his guest at his hold, to share the tales of our two peoples and discuss how we may work together in the future.”

Alcadizzar brightened. The prospect of meeting the mountain-lords and seeing their creations excited him. “How far a journey is it to the World’s Edge Mountains?”

“Six weeks, if the weather is cooperative,” Rahotep answered. “We could travel there in the early autumn, and winter there until the passes open again.”

Six weeks, Alcadizzar thought. It could be done. If the trade negotiations were concluded quickly enough, it was just possible. He turned to Khalida, smiling hopefully—only to find her already watching him, her expression bleak.

Slowly, deliberately, she withdrew her hand.

“The king may do as he pleases, of course,” she said without being asked and looked away.

Alcadizzar’s heart sank. “We will consider the invitation,” he said, turning back to Rahotep with a half-hearted smile. “You have my thanks for your efforts on behalf of the empire, my lord. I look forwards to hearing a fuller report on the morrow.”

Rahotep bowed gracefully and withdrew. Servants came forwards from the shadows to take charge of the king’s magnificent gifts. Alcadizzar watched the explorer depart through the crowd of restless petitioners and felt the bitter sting of envy.

No sooner had Rahotep gone than Inofre reappeared, hurrying down the processional towards the throne. The Grand Vizier gripped his hands together nervously, and his sweaty face was pale. Alcadizzar frowned, seeing that Inofre was alone.

“Well?” the king asked. “What now?”

Inofre looked from Alcadizzar to the remote face of the queen. “A great host of desert riders have arrived and are making camp south of the city,” he said. “Ophiria is with them. She says you must come to her at once.”

A hot wind, reeking of burnt metal and ash, howled like a tormented spirit around the top of the high tower. The Lahmian stood as still as a statue, his eyes glittering with fear as Nagash stood before him. The Undying King reached out and gripped the side of the necromancer’s face, the tip of his armoured thumb hovering just beneath W’soran’s eye. Slowly, deliberately, Nagash pressed the tip of his thumb against W’soran’s withered flesh and drew it downwards, etching a glowing green line into skin and bone.

“Go forth,” intoned the Undying King, “into the lands of men, where the name of Nagash has been forgotten.” He etched the first part of the sigil all the way to the bottom of W’soran’s jaw, then lifted his thumb and began the second mark, clawing a curve along the line of the necromancer’s cheekbone.

A faint tremor shook W’soran’s skeletal frame as Nagash etched the sigil of binding into his face. The Undying King could taste the necromancer’s agony, and noted with approval how W’soran fed upon the suffering, as he had been taught. When the Lahmian had first arrived at Nagashizzar, his skill at necromancy had been rudimentary at best. It had taken many years of instruction to mould him into a potent and useful servant. Arkhan, by comparison, had improved much more swiftly, perhaps because his sojourn in the lands of the dead had given him a greater facility with spirits. Because of this, and because Nagash knew of his skills as a warlord, Arkhan would have overall command of the Undying King’s host. W’soran—and the dozen barbarians he had bequeathed his peculiar brand of immortality to—would serve as Arkhan’s lieutenants and champions and take charge of individual legions as the liche saw fit. He would need every necromancer at his disposal to control the vast army that Nagash had created. The effort would tax their abilities to the utmost.

“Go you to the great cities and cast them down,” Nagash continued, weaving the incantation that would bind W’soran to his legions. “Cast down the palaces of the proud kings. Cast down the temples of the fallen gods. Fill every well with dust and every road with ash. Let the winds carry the lamentations of the people to the far corners of the world.”

Nagash drew his hand away. The sigil of binding pulsed fitfully against W’soran’s grey skin.

“In the name of Nagash the Undying, go forth, faithful servant, and conquer.”

The necromancer wove unsteadily on his feet for a moment, but then bowed his head. “It shall be done, great one,” he said in a hollow voice. “I swear it.”

Nagash turned away. The wind hissed across the jagged surface of his armour as he strode to the edge of the tower and looked down upon his assembled host.

They had been marching out from the depths of the fortress for days, and would continue to do so for several days more, taking their places along the shores of the dark sea. The long shoreline had been cleared of debris for leagues to the north and south, where huge ships of bone waited to carry the army to Nehekhara.

The shoreline glittered coldly in the wan moonlight, reflecting off countless spear-points and tarnished helms. Hundreds of companies of spearmen and archers, hordes of skeletal cavalry and sickle-bladed chariots, and huge, thundering engines of war; it was his hatred for the living given form, as vast and pitiless as the desert sands.

The Undying King raised a smoking fist to the heavens. “Now let the end of the living world begin.”