—<TWENTY-SIX>—

Tides of Bone

West of the Golden Plain, in the 110th year of Khsar the Faceless
(-1162 Imperial Reckoning)

The spirit wailed like a damned soul, wracked by the binding sigil and the force of Arkhan’s will. It wavered like a luminous thread of smoke above the body it had inhabited in life, that of a young, handsome Rasetran clad in finely wrought iron armour. Dried blood coated the prince’s square chin and spread down the front of his breastplate like a coating of rust. An arrow jutted from the side of his throat.

With an angry sweep of his hand, the liche dispelled the summoning ritual, returning the prince’s spirit to the realms of the dead. He spat another string of arcane syllables and the bloodstained body jerked, as though startled. A groan escaped from the prince’s lungs, forcing a stream of thick congealing blood from the corpse’s slack mouth. Grave-light flickered from the depths of the man’s filmy eyes. The dead man climbed stiffly to his feet; with a growled command the liche sent the corpse to join the ranks of the Undying King’s army.

Hours had passed since the battle with the Nehekharans and the bulk of the undead army remained close to the corpse-strewn battlefield. Arkhan had been forced to wait until nightfall to interrogate the spirits of the enemy dead; after his abrupt departure from Lahmia several weeks ago, W’soran refused to let him out of the necromancer’s sight. Even now, he sat upon his ridiculous palanquin just a few yards away, sneering under his breath while Arkhan worked.

Arkhan would have liked nothing better than to twist the necromancer’s head off his bony neck and feed his old bones to the jackals, if they would have them. The battle with the Nehekharans had confirmed his suspicions that W’soran didn’t know the first thing about war. The necromancer had simply thrown troops at the mortals until the much smaller army had no choice but to retreat—and had taken substantial losses in the process. Unfortunately, if he killed W’soran now, he couldn’t be certain how the immortal’s progeny would react, and Arkhan could not effectively command the vast army without them. If the battle with Rasetra and Lybaras was any indication, he would need all the warriors at his disposal to conquer the great cities.

The enemy was far better prepared than they had any right to be and now he knew the reason why.

W’soran stirred from his reverie as the dead Rasetran prince shuffled past. “That’s the eighth one,” he snapped. “How many more do you intend to question? We’re wasting valuable time.” He waved his skeletal hand to the south. “Every hour we spend here allows the Lybarans to get another mile closer to their city.”

“That is the least of our concerns,” Arkhan snarled. “All of Nehekhara is up in arms. They somehow knew we were coming while our ships were still sailing down the strait!” He pointed to the prince’s walking corpse. “They’ve been preparing for our coming since Lahmia fell, nearly forty years ago. How is that possible?”

“It’s not,” W’soran said flatly. “The very idea is absurd. Alcadizzar is many things, but he’s not an oracle.” He snorted in derision. “The spirit must have lied to you.”

Arkhan’s fists clenched angrily. “The ritual compelled him to speak the truth.”

“Then he was mistaken,” W’soran snapped. “What does it matter? Nehekhara must be conquered and Alcadizzar brought back to Nagashizzar in chains. The Undying King has commanded it and we must obey.”

It matters a great deal if we’re marching into a trap, you fool, Arkhan thought. “The Nehekharans know we’re coming,” Arkhan insisted. “What is more, they’re armed with weapons and magic that we had no idea they possessed.” He folded his arms. “We’ve lost the element of surprise and today’s battle shows that we can’t depend on numbers alone to defeat the enemy.”

W’soran studied him warily. “What do you suggest?”

“We still have one advantage the mortals cannot match: our troops are tireless and can march longer and faster than anyone else. The Rasetrans and the Lybarans were put in our path to slow us down, while the cities of the west marshalled their troops. If we move quickly, we can still catch them unawares and defeat them one city at a time.”

“How?”

“We divide the army. You take a third of the host and keep Lybaras and Rasetra at bay, while I head west at once and strike for Khemri. If I can take Quatar and the Gates of the Dawn by storm, I can be at the Living City within three weeks. Once Alcadizzar is defeated, the rest of the cities should fall easily.”

The necromancer shook his head. “Oh, no. You think I’m going to waste my time on this side of the Brittle Peaks while you march into Khemri and claim all the glory?”

Arkhan glared at the immortal. “We cannot leave Rasetra and Lybaras free to act while we march into the Valley of Kings,” he grated. “If they marched into the valley behind us, we would be caught between two forces, with little room to manoeuvre.”

Even W’soran could see the danger in such a situation. “I’ll send four of my retainers to keep Rasetra and Lybaras occupied,” he said. “That’s almost a third of the army. More than enough to hold the Nehekharans at bay.”

“Very well,” Arkhan said grudgingly. He didn’t want W’soran anywhere within a hundred leagues of him, but for the moment, he needed the fool’s cooperation or else the entire invasion was in peril. “We leave at once.”

The liche turned on his heel and headed for his horse, thoughts of murder dancing in his head. If W’soran wanted to be in the thick of the fighting, he would be happy to oblige him. The battlefield could be a dangerous place for the unwary.

The people of Khemri turned out in a vast, cheering throng to see their king and queen off to war. Down at the docks, the last few companies of Khemri’s army had been loaded onto the barges, along with the horsemen from Numas and the desert tribes. The barges from Zandri had arrived the day before; now the river was crowded with a fleet of brightly painted craft that stretched westwards as far as the eye could see.

Outside the palace, the royal guard was drawn up in their chariots, awaiting the command to depart. The slaves of the royal household waited on the steps of the palace; each one had been given a gold coin to cast upon the ground at the feet of the king, as an offering to Ptra the Great Father, god of the sun.

At the appointed hour, brass horns shook the air and outside the palace compound the people of Khemri roared in response. Moments later, the royal procession emerged into the bright sunlight. First came Inofre, the Grand Vizier, dressed in all his finery, leading the rest of the king’s viziers, followed by the king and queen.

Alcadizzar wore the golden armour gifted to him by the mountain-lords, and shone with all the fury of the sun. The crook and the sceptre had been left upon Settra’s throne; in their place the king held his golden sword of war. Beside him, Khalida was the dark to the king’s light, clad in a gold-chased iron breastplate and a heavy skirt of iron scales over her flowing cotton robes. A desert headscarf hung loosely about her face; a horseman’s bow and quiver were slung over her shoulder.

Behind the king and queen walked Prince Ubaid, their youngest son. The prince’s head was downcast as he followed them out onto the steps of the palace, his handsome face screwed up into a fierce scowl as his parents turned to face him.

“Why must I stay behind?” he complained, as though the matter hadn’t already been explained to him a dozen times.

“Because you’re too young,” Alcadizzar reminded him. “Your older brother Asar is sixteen and he’s not fighting, either.” The crown prince had left Ka-Sabar not long after the call to arms had been sounded and returned with his uncle to Bel Aliad, where he would remain until the war was over.

“But Ophiria is going along,” Ubaid protested. “And she’s old.”

Alcadizzar sighed. “If I could command Ophiria to stay, I would. But the Daughter of the Sands goes where she wishes.”

The prince folded his arms. “I wish I was the Son of the Sands, then.”

Khalida placed a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Someone must stay behind to reassure the people while the army is away,” she said solemnly. “You and Inofre will rule the empire until our return. Are you up to such a great task?”

Ubaid’s head lifted proudly. “Of course,” he said, with all the solemnity a nine year-old could muster. “Does that mean I can stay up all night like father does—and eat my meals in the library?”

Khalida gave Alcadizzar a sidelong look. “That’s the privilege of being a ruler, I suppose,” she said. The queen bent and kissed him gently on the forehead, causing the young prince to squirm. “We’ll be back as soon as we can, dearest,” she said.

“I know.”

Alcadizzar knelt beside his son and embraced him. “Be brave, and rule wisely,” he said. “And don’t empty the treasury while I’m gone.”

“All right.”

The king smiled and kissed his son farewell, and then took Khalida’s hand. Together they descended the stone steps. Gold flashed and chimed at their feet. The king and queen smiled broadly at the royal household and the waiting guards.

“I heard a messenger came last night,” Khalida said under her breath.

Alcadizzar nodded. “News from Heru. They encountered Nagash’s vanguard four days ago. The first battle happened yesterday.”

“And?”

The king drew a deep breath. “They lasted an hour,” he said through clenched teeth. “Between them and the Lybarans, they had close to a hundred thousand men, and Heru said they were outnumbered at least five to one.”

“Great gods,” Khalida cursed. Her smile never faltered. “Where are they now?”

“Retreating south, towards Lybaras.”

“They were supposed to delay Nagash for weeks,” the queen hissed. “What now?”

The couple reached the bottom of the steps and turned to wave one last farewell to Prince Ubaid. The boy broke into a wide grin and waved back.

“We hold to the plan,” Alcadizzar replied. “And pray that Quatar can hold the Gates of the Dawn. Otherwise, there will be nothing to stop Nagash from seizing the west.”

True to Arkhan’s word, the undead host moved like locusts down the western trade road, darkening the skies with their passage. While four of W’soran’s immortals pursued the eastern armies southwards, the liche raced for the Valley of Kings with all the speed his slow-moving force could manage.

First, however, came Mahrak, seat of the Hieratic Council and once known as the City of the Gods, where Nagash had been defeated during the first war.

What little that Arkhan knew of the city’s fate dated from Lamashizzar’s reign, centuries ago. In those days the city had largely fallen into ruin, following the end of the sacred covenant and the decimation of the ruling council. W’soran claimed that Neferata had supported the restoration of the city during her reign, but that Mahrak was still but a shadow of its former glory. At this point, however, Arkhan didn’t trust anything the necromancer told him, so he approached Mahrak expecting to find bristling fortifications and a determined army ready for battle.

The truth, he discovered, was somewhere in-between. Two weeks after the battle with Rasetra and Lybaras, the undead host arrived at Mahrak just after sunset, and found a city much diminished in glory, but with its walls and gates fully intact. Thousands of white-robed warriors stood atop the battlements, ready to defend the city to the death.

Arkhan made every effort to oblige them.

Through the night, his warriors surrounded the city, cutting off every avenue of escape and forcing Mahrak’s defenders to spread themselves all along its perimeter. Catapults were dragged into place and smaller war engines assembled at strategic points around the city. Within hours, the first probing attacks were launched against the city walls, testing the strength of the defenders’ organisation and resolve. Arkhan kept them up all through the following day, keeping the mortals on edge and giving them no chance for rest.

That evening, just after sunset, the attack began in earnest.

Catapults hurled shrieking missiles high overhead, targeting the tops of the walls and the city’s gatehouses. Multi-legged war engines raced for the walls, followed by scores of skeletal companies equipped with crude ladders. Showers of arrows fell amid the ranks of the dead, striking down warriors by the dozens, and sporadic catapult fire from inside the city carved swathes of destruction through the oncoming companies. But the survivors pressed on, heedless of casualties and undaunted by the towering walls rising before them. War engines scuttled up the stone face like spiders, stabbing men with their forelegs and flinging their screaming bodies off the battlements. Bone ladders rattled against the walls under the covering fire of arrows; skeletons climbed for the battlements with daggers or hatchets clutched between their rotting teeth. The city defenders flung rocks down at the attackers, or waited along the walls with clubs or axes to fend them off. The undead snatched at them with their bony hands, seizing men by the arms and necks and pulling the defenders with them as they toppled off the wall.

Once the assault began, it never let up. Arkhan gave the defenders not one moment of respite. Necromantic energies crackled in the night air, lashing the battlements with searing bolts of power, or animating the bodies of the fallen and turning them on their fellows.

Arkhan expected to carry the walls in just a few hours and one of the gates shortly after that, but the defenders of the once-holy city were made of sterner stuff than he imagined. They defended every foot of the walls with their blood; if the undead did not falter, then neither did they. Two hours passed, then four, and then six, and still the gates remained in the defenders’ hands.

Slowly but surely, however, the sheer weight of numbers began to tell. By dawn of the following day, most of the city walls had been cleared and fighting was concentrated around both city gates. By noon, the east gate fell, only to be retaken minutes later by a furious counter-attack. Back and forth the fighting went, with both gatehouses changing hands as much as a dozen times throughout the bloody afternoon. By nightfall, however, the eastern gate fell again, and this time there was no mortal left alive to reclaim it.

Arkhan’s troops poured into the city and for the next three days and nights they slaughtered every living thing within Mahrak’s walls. The temples were put to the torch, and the corpses of the slain were raised up and pressed into the ranks of the conquering army, restoring a portion of the warriors Arkhan had lost.

Five days after the undead host reached Mahrak, the City of the Gods was no more. Nothing was left but heaps of broken bones and scorched rubble; a vast, bleak testament to the vengeance of Nagash.