—<TWENTY-SEVEN>—

At the Gates of the Dawn

The Valley of Kings, in the 110th year of Khsar the Faceless
(-1162 Imperial Reckoning)

 

 

A week after the fall of Mahrak, the undead army reached the eastern edge of the Valley of Kings. At the mouth of the valley stood the Gates of the Dusk: eight towering stone pillars, each a hundred feet tall and older than Nehekhara itself, arrayed to either side of the wide road that wound through the base of the broad valley floor. In Arkhan’s time, an unfinished wall had stretched across the valley up to the first pillars of the ancient gate. Since then, it had been replaced with something altogether more formidable—a towering bulwark of closely-fitted stone that rose more than thirty feet high, with hulking bastions rising every quarter mile to the north and south. A brooding gatehouse had been built across the road, just a hundred yards east of the obelisks, and the entrance sealed by twin slabs of solid basalt more than ten feet wide and fifteen feet high.

Prepared for another bitter assault, Arkhan hurled a dozen companies of skeletons and ten war engines at the city walls. Shielded by layers of necromantic incantations, the companies crossed the open ground before the walls without challenge and climbed swiftly onto the battlements. The liche waited upon his horse just out of bowshot, listening for the sound of fighting that never came. There were no guards upon the battlements, or within the fearsome gatehouse. The huge and costly fortifications, no doubt built over many years to secure the eastern end of the valley, were completely deserted. The garrison—if in fact there had ever been one—had likely been withdrawn to Mahrak and died there in the city’s defence.

There was no fathoming the ways of priests, Arkhan thought, as he led his wights past the Gates of the Dusk.

 

At that same moment, more than a hundred leagues to the north, Alcadizzar and the armies of the west were emerging onto dry land once more.

The trip upriver had gone without incident—other than a lengthy and brutal battle with seasickness among the desert tribesmen—and within a few weeks the first of the river barges reached their destination. After the first week of the journey the fleet had headed up the Golden River, a tributary of the Vitae, and into the depths of the Bitter Peaks. There, at the river’s end, they came to a small outpost that stood sentinel over a series of stone docks that would have been the envy of any major city. They had been built during Alcadizzar’s reign for a single purpose—to move an army as quickly and efficiently as possible to the eastern side of the mountains.

Few men outside of Khemri knew of the existence of the docks; fewer still knew of the narrow road that had been carved a hundred and twenty leagues through the mountains to the south-east. Caches of food and water had already been put in place along the route, allowing Alcadizzar’s forces to travel light and move faster still. So long as the weather held, they would reach the Gates of the Dusk in just under two weeks.

They had learned of the fall of Mahrak while en route up the river; Ophiria had seen it in a vision and spoke of the slaughter that Nagash’s troops had wrought. From Mahrak, Alcadizzar was certain that the army would continue into the Valley of Kings in an attempt to break out into western Nehekhara. With the armies of the east now trapped in Lybaras by a sizeable force of Nagash’s troops, the way seemed clear to proceed to Quatar, and then beyond to Khemri itself.

What the enemy did not know was that the Gates of the Dawn had changed a great deal since the Usurper’s reign, and that the armies of Quatar and Ka-Sabar stood ready to repel them. When Alcadizzar and his armies reached the Gates of the Dusk, the trap would snap shut.

They just had to reach the western end of the valley in time.

 

The Valley of Kings had once been a vast burial ground, where the early Nehekharans had laid their people to rest prior to the creation of the great cities. Grand tombs had been dug into the valley’s steep slopes and the valley floor had been crowded with sandstone shrines and clustered mausoleums.

Now there were only piles of broken stone and blackened rubble stretching for hundreds of miles—the remnants of a months-long running battle fought between the armies of the Usurper and the rebel kings of the east, some six hundred years before. Arkhan remembered the gruelling pursuit across the valley. The retreating easterners had toppled statues and broken apart the mausoleums to create improvised redoubts for their archers and spearmen, while Mahrak’s priests bedevilled his cavalry with cunning illusions and deadly magical traps. The rebels had made Nagash’s forces pay dearly for every foot of ground, forcing the immortals to break open the tombs along the valley slopes in search of more bodies to fill their thinning ranks. The pursuit had lasted for two gruelling weeks and was some of the hardest fighting of the war.

This time, Nagash’s warriors were moving in the opposite direction, towards the Gates of the Dawn and the city of Quatar. During the days of Nagash’s reign, the western end of the valley had been sealed off by fortifications even greater than the ones that had been built at the Gates of the Dusk, but the Lybarans had found a way to demolish them in an attempt to slow Nagash’s advancing army. Given what he’d seen at the Gates of the Dusk, Arkhan had to assume that something similar had been built at the western end of the valley, and that it would be well defended. Quatar’s famous Tomb Guard had been charged with protecting the Gates of the Dawn for millennia; since the Valley of Kings was the only way to move an army across the Brittle Peaks, it was certain that they would be manning the battlements and watching for his approach.

The Gates of the Dawn had to be taken by storm. Now that all Nehekhara was up in arms, Arkhan knew that he had to move quickly before the western kings could unite into a single, massive army. Every day he lost fighting in the valley allowed his enemies to grow stronger, which was something he could not permit.

Arkhan bent all his power to speeding the march of his army. W’soran, not to be outdone, commanded his progeny to do the same. Shrouded in swirling darkness, the undead host raced westwards, past the shattered tombs of the ancients.

Moving day and night, Nagash’s army crossed the Valley of Kings in a mere seven days, but the demands of the march and the broken terrain had spread the host over more than ten miles of ground. The cavalry was in the lead, the skeletal horses picking their way easily over the broken ground, followed by scores of clattering war engines and loose companies of loping axe-wielding skeletons. Farther back were the tighter formations of the spear companies and then finally the catapults and the rest of the large siege engines. Arkhan rode with the rest of the horsemen, his glowing eyes burning in the dark as he tried to catch a glimpse of the distant gates. When he reached them, there would be no pause for preparation—he would simply unleash his warriors on the wall in a rising tide of metal and bone, until the Tomb Guard were swept aside. Whatever defences the enemy had in place, Arkhan was certain they could be swiftly overrun.

He was wrong.

 

The first thing Arkhan saw was sparks of fire blazing against the darkness, scores of watch fires, burning in the night. They were arranged in three lines, and at different heights, with the first row of fires some twenty feet above the valley floor, the next at forty feet, and the smallest at around sixty feet above the ground.

Moments later, the liche vaulted his horse over a heap of broken sandstone and found himself galloping across a wide expanse of cleared ground, more than a hundred yards long. After days and nights of negotiating the rubble-strewn terrain of the rest of the valley, the transition was jarring.

Then, he understood, just as the first blazing missiles flew from the enemy’s defences; they’d reached the killing ground at the edge of the fortifications.

Crackling balls of pitch shot skywards on trails of fire, seeming to hang in the air for long moments before plunging like thunderbolts amidst the skeletal horsemen. The missiles exploded on impact, catching desiccated skin and dried bone alight and transforming riders and mounts into firebrands. Snarling, Arkhan redoubled the speed of the cavalry, racing his horse archers as close to the wall as he could manage.

As the fires multiplied along the killing ground, Arkhan saw the wall—the first wall, made of slabs of granite that rose twenty feet above the valley floor. Archers along the wall and its squat, brooding gatehouse unleashed a torrent of arrows at the oncoming horsemen, their enchanted arrowheads wreaking havoc among the undead squadrons. A hundred yards behind the first wall, a second wall rose to a height of forty feet, reinforced with stone bastions every two hundred and fifty yards along its length. Then, another hundred yards further on, Arkhan could just make out the black bulk of the third and final wall; sixty feet of sheer basalt, sealing off the Gates of the Dawn.

Another ball of fire crackled just overhead, spilling motes of burning pitch onto Arkhan’s shoulders. With a curse, he ordered his horse archers to fire one volley at the men on the first wall and then withdraw out of range. The enemy’s defences were far stronger than he’d imagined possible. He would have to waste precious time until the rest of the army arrived before he could contemplate an assault.

His plan in tatters, Arkhan wheeled his horse around and retreated from the killing ground, his mind seething as he contemplated his next move.

 

The western army stopped only when absolutely necessary to spare the horses and feed the men. Everyone, from the king to the lowliest spearman, was dull-eyed with fatigue, but they had made good time along the mountain road and had crossed the Gates of the Dusk in only ten days. As the warriors sat alongside the trade road that wound along the rubble-strewn valley, they could still see the lingering pall of smoke that hung over the dead city of Mahrak to the north-east. It was a grim sight, reminding them of the threat that loomed over all Nehekhara.

Alcadizzar was resting his head against the side of his chariot when Suleiman, his chief wizard, came riding up the column on a borrowed horse. His arcane robes were stained brown with road-dust; lines of grit stood out sharply along the creases of his neck and the deep wrinkles around his eyes. His polished metal skullcap flashed brightly in the morning sun.

“A message from Quatar,” the wizard said without preamble, leaning heavily on his staff. “Nagash’s army is at the Gates of the Dawn.”

Alcadizzar sat forwards, instantly alert. “How many?”

“A hundred thousand at least,” Suleiman replied. “But more are arriving each hour. It could be many times that number.”

The king nodded gravely. “Can they hold the gates?”

Suleiman nodded. “For now.”

“Any word from Lybaras?”

“Heru says that the city is still besieged. Reinforcements are on the way from Rasetra, but are not expected to arrive for almost a month.”

Alcadizzar rubbed his aching eyes. So long as Heru and the Lybarans could hold the city, then they were drawing away thousands of warriors that his own army would not have to face in the valley. That would have to be enough.

The king looked to the west, contemplating how hard he could push his exhausted men. “Tell Quatar to give me ten days. Tell them to do whatever they must, but I need ten days.”

 

The first wall fell after two days of near-constant attacks. Arkhan ordered the skeletal companies forwards under a hail of arrow fire and a relentless barrage from the catapults that had been rushed to the battlefield. The defenders fought back tenaciously, using their own arrows and catapult fire to wreak havoc among the undead horde. Arkhan saw quickly that it wasn’t just white-armoured Tomb Guard who were manning the walls, but iron-clad heavy infantry from Ka-Sabar as well. They hurled sandstone blocks down on the skeletons, or doused them with pots of burning pitch; they smashed skulls and hacked off arms, or split ladders in half with polearms and axes.

One assault after another was repulsed, but Arkhan was relentless. Finally, the catapults succeeded in making a breach around noon of the second day, and the liche ordered his cavalry through the gap. At that point, the defenders knew they had to retreat, or risk being cut off. They pulled back in good order, leaving some four thousand of their dead and wounded behind. Arkhan made certain that they were the front ranks of the next assault.

The second wall held out much longer than the first. It was too high for ladders, and so thick that it shrugged off all but concentrated catapult fire. Arkhan raked the battlements with blasts of sorcery and repeated attacks by swift war engines, but each one was repulsed. Four attempts to batter down the gate were likewise defeated, crushed by heavy stones dropped from the gatehouse, or burned to ash by streams of burning pitch. Finally, after five days of effort, Arkhan persuaded W’soran to send in his immortals. The risk was great, since they were integral to the spells that animated and controlled the army. The death of even one would cost the undead host tens of thousands of troops. But the gamble paid off; the immortals scuttled up the wall like spiders, concealed from view by a wall of sorcerous fog conjured by W’soran. Within an hour, shouts of alarm sounded from along the wall as the second gate groaned open. The wall’s defenders launched one ferocious attack after another in a desperate attempt to retake the gatehouse and seal the gates, but to no avail. The survivors fled to the third and final wall with Arkhan’s cavalry right on their heels.

After a week of constant attacks, Arkhan pulled back his forces and contemplated the final obstacle in his path. The third wall was too tall to climb and too thick for catapults. That left only the gate, which was made from two slabs of polished basalt some two feet thick.

For two days, the grim defenders atop the third wall peered into the gloom, nervously clutching their weapons as they waited for the final assault to begin. By the third day, some atop the wall began to hope that the enemy had finally given up. King Alcadizzar and his forces had to be very close by now.

And then, just past noon, they felt it, a faint, rhythmic tremor, vibrating through the stone beneath their feet. One slow beat after another, like the tread of giant feet.

 

The bone giants weren’t built for height. They were relatively short—only about twelve feet tall at the shoulder—but very wide, with massive arms and four thick, stubby legs. There were six of them, each one composed of thousands of man-sized bones and plated with every piece of scavenged metal that Arkhan’s skeletons could find. Between them they carried a battering ram made from a sandstone column that was fifteen feet long and weighed tens of tons. The ground shook beneath their feet as they made their way through the second gate and towards the remaining wall. Several dozen smaller war engines scuttled along in the giants’ wake, their spindly legs crusted with old gore.

Assembling the giants had required the efforts of not just Arkhan, but W’soran and all three of his immortals as well. The cost in time and energy had been great, but Arkhan reckoned it a small price to pay if it got them past the Gates of the Dawn.

The liche sat upon his warhorse and watched the giants lumber off into the distance. Trumpets were already sounding the alarm atop the wall as the juggernauts became visible through the gloom. Most of the army’s cavalry and a few large skeletal companies stood ready on the far side of the second wall. The rest—belonging to W’soran and his immortals—waited in the space between the first and second walls, safe from enemy catapult fire. Arkhan turned to W’soran, who sat upon his palanquin at the edge of a ritual circle inscribed upon the ground. Six large clay jars rested in the centre of the circle; the necromancer’s three progeny stood at different points around the perimeter, waiting to begin the ritual.

W’soran clutched a large, leather-bound tome in his bony hands. It was one of the ancient books of Nagash, returned to him by the Undying King just before leaving Nagashizzar. The necromancer searched through the pages for the proper ritual, then turned to Arkhan. “When shall we begin?”

The liche gauged the distance between the giants and the wall. They would be in catapult range any moment. “Now,” he grated. “I will go forwards and lead the cavalry through the breach.”

“Of course,” W’soran said, with only a hint of a sneer in his voice.

Arkhan spurred his horse forwards, heading for his wight bodyguard and the waiting cavalry. The necromancer muttered a curse at his retreating back and then turned to his progeny. With nothing more than a curt nod, he raised his arms and began to chant.

The three immortals joined in at once, adding their power to the rite. The energy built from one minute to the next, until the air above the circle crackled with unseen power. The heavy jars, each one as big as a grown man, began to tremble. Their lids rattled—slightly at first, but then louder and more energetically with each passing moment. W’soran’s voice increased in pitch, the words spilling from his lips in a buzzing crescendo. And then, with a crack of shattering clay, the lids of the jars burst apart at once, and thousands upon thousands of black tomb beetles erupted from their depths. They rose into the air, joining together in a swirling oily-black cyclone that wavered for a moment above the ritual circle, then sped westwards, climbing swiftly until it broke like a hungry wave over the battlements.

Shouts and agonised screams echoed from the top of the wall as the giants bore down upon the last gate.

 

The desert tribesman crouched and marked lines in the sand with the point of his knife. “The enemy is through the first and second walls,” he said. “The first wall has a breach, here, and the gates are open. Most of the enemy army is between the first and second walls.”

Alcadizzar studied the markings in the gloom. He was crouching beside his chariot, surrounded by his closest advisors: Khalida, Ophiria, Suleiman and Faisr’s eldest son, Muktadir. They were a quarter mile from the Gates of the Dawn, close enough to hear the sounds of battle in the distance. “What are they doing now?”

“Hammering at the third gate with something very large. I could not see what. They are also using some kind of magic to blind the men atop the wall. It looks like a shimmering black cloud.”

Alcadizzar looked to Suleiman. The wizard shook his head. “It could be anything,” he said. “But it means that at least some of their necromancers are busy performing the spell.”

“It appears we have arrived just in time,” Muktadir observed. He was tall and rakishly handsome, as his father had been. Upon Faisr’s death, just five short years after the fall of Lahmia, Muktadir had risen to take his place as the great chieftain of the tribe. “We should strike quickly, while they are focussed on taking the third gate.”

“Agreed,” Alcadizzar said. He turned back to the tribesman. “Does the enemy have any sentries on the first wall?”

The warrior smiled wolfishly. “None.”

Alcadizzar returned the smile. “Good. Suleiman, can you and your wizards conceal our approach as far as the first wall?”

The wizard scratched his chin. “If they are distracted with their own rituals, then yes.”

“All right,” the king said. “We’ll put archers along the first wall. They’ll fire as soon as the attack begins. I’ll lead the chariots through the first gate. Muktadir, take your tribesmen and heavy cavalry through the breach. The infantry will follow behind us as quick as they are able. Look for their necromancers. If we can destroy them, we’ll end this battle quickly.” He rose. Behind him, the army spread out across the valley in a vast battle-line, its ends hidden in the gloom. Part of him would have liked to have said something inspiring, right at the brink of battle, but circumstances prevented it. If they survived the next few hours there would be plenty of time for speeches later, he thought. “Suleiman, you ride with me.”

Muktadir and his kinsmen mounted their horses and departed quickly, while Suleiman summoned a messenger and composed instructions for his fellow wizards. Alcadizzar took Khalida’s hand and turned to Ophiria. “Any last words of advice?” he asked the seer.

The Daughter of the Sands was an old woman now, having served the tribes for more than a hundred years. Her face and hands were deeply wrinkled, but Alcadizzar could still see the coltish lines of the girl she once had been.

She looked up at the king and shrugged. “Don’t get killed.”

Despite the tension in the air, Khalida snorted in laughter. Alcadizzar gave Ophiria a mock frown. “What would we have ever done without you?”

The seer leaned forwards and rested a hand on the side of each of their faces. Tears shone in her eyes. “Khsar turn his face from you in the battle to come,” she said in a wavering voice. “Let him unleash his hunger upon the foe, and gnaw their bones in his teeth.”

Alcadizzar smiled. “Keep safe, Daughter of the Sands. Until we meet again.”

With that, the king and queen climbed into their chariot. Suleiman climbed clumsily after them, then came the chariot’s two young bowmen. When all were aboard, Khalida tugged at the reins and the war machine clattered off into the darkness.

Ophiria watched them go, knowing how the battle would end.

 

The giants drew back the ram once more and smashed it against the gate. Arkhan could feel the concussion almost seventy-five yards away. The thunderous blow shook the stone slabs on their hinges and brought down another shower of powdered mortar from the arch above the gate. The huge constructs worked entirely unimpeded; every man atop the wall was beset by the buzzing storm of scarabs, or the swiftly-moving war engines. Another few blows, he thought, and the gates would start to crack.

Arkhan turned to his cavalry and, with a thought, ordered a slow advance. Thousands of skeletal horsemen started forwards, walking slowly over the hard ground.

Another blow echoed across the field, followed by a brittle shower of broken rock. Not long now, he thought.

 

The archers went in first, racing up to the wall and disappearing through the gate. Within minutes they were spreading out across the top of the wall. After the last bowman had vanished, Alcadizzar ordered the cavalry forwards. Beside him, Suleiman clutched his staff and chanted in a low voice, muffling the sound of the wheels and the thudding of the horses’ hooves. Other wizards were doing the same with the infantry companies approaching behind them. With luck, the enemy would not know they were in danger until the charge began.

Khalida crouched low behind the armoured rim of the chariot, reins gripped loosely in her hands. She’d strung her bow and had it ready upon her back. Alcadizzar leaned forwards and gripped her shoulder. “We’ll charge as soon as we emerge from the gate. No time and no point waiting for us to get into formation.”

She nodded, intent on guiding the chariot through the approaching gate. Everything was strangely calm. The king gripped the hilt of his golden blade.

Khalida snapped the reins as they entered the tunnel, bringing the horses to a canter. The sound of the wheels was deafening inside the tunnel; it seemed impossible that no one else could hear it. Within seconds, they had crossed through the first wall and emerged on the other side. At that moment, the queen drew her headscarf across her face and let out a wild, ululating battle cry. The horses broke into a charge.

Alcadizzar drew his sword. The blade of the mountain-lords blazed in the darkness, like a splinter of the sun.

“For Khemri!” he shouted. “For Nehekhara! Forwards!”

 

* * *

 

The ritual occupied W’soran’s total focus, guiding the scarabs and stoking their hunger with the slightest touch of his power. It required a delicate touch: too much, and the scarabs burned out, too little and they became tired and docile.

He did not realise that the army was under attack until arrows started hissing all around them.

Flashes of white peppered the ranks of the undead, toppling a skeletal warrior with each hit. Two shafts thunked into the back of his seat, while another struck one of his progeny in the shoulder. The immortal howled in pain, snapping the shaft of the arrow in his frantic efforts to remove it. He tore the arrow free with a convulsive wrench, leaving a smoking hole in his breast.

The other immortals ducked for cover and the ritual came undone. Cursing, W’soran whirled about, searching the darkness for the source of the arrow fire.

Trumpets wailed to the east, followed by the swelling thunder of horses’ hooves. The killing ground behind the undead host was packed with horsemen and chariots—tens of thousands of them—and they all seemed to be charging his way. At their centre was a man in golden armour, brandishing a fiery sword. W’soran’s heart went cold.

“Alcadizzar!” he cried.

 

The ram struck home again. This time Arkhan could see the cracks radiating through both doors, stretching all the way from the inner edge to the hinges. A shower of rock fragments fell to the ground, leaving a shallow crater in the surface of the right-hand gate. Arkhan hissed in anticipation and drew his sword.

And then, without warning, the angry buzzing that had filled the air for nearly half an hour fell ominously silent. Arkhan looked up to see a shower of tiny, black insects pattering along the battlements and coursing like rain down the sheer wall. The screams from above fell silent.

Arkhan whirled his horse about, as though he could peer down the tunnel of the second gate and see what had interrupted the ritual. And then he heard the wailing of war-horns—not from the wall, but from the east, back the way he’d come.

It wasn’t possible, the liche thought. The closest mortal armies were trapped at Lybaras, hundreds of miles away.

And then he heard the rending crash of a cavalry charge striking home and knew for certain that, somehow, his forces were under attack.

 

Alcadizzar’s sword sketched an arc of fire through the air and carved through two skeletal warriors as the chariot thundered past. Behind him, his two bowmen were firing as fast as they could draw arrows; the enemy was so tightly packed together that every shot almost guaranteed a hit. Suleiman was roaring incantations over the din of the battlefield, hurling bolts of power into the undead ranks.

Around the king, the chariots of the royal guard had formed a wedge and driven deep into the enemy’s reserve formations. Heavy cavalry off to the left and right had smashed into the rear of the spear companies, smashing warriors to the ground with swords, axes and horse hooves. More arrows hissed overhead as the archers on the first wall adjusted their aim to fire over the heads of the Nehekharans.

The initial attack had gone well. Against a mortal army, the result would have been chaos, but the undead simply turned about to face their new foe without a moment’s shock or hesitation. It would not be long at all before the cavalry was forced back by the sheer numbers of the enemy.

Alcadizzar turned to Suleiman. “The necromancers!” he cried. “Where are they?”

The wizard scowled at him for a moment, trying to understand the king over the din of battle. Suddenly, his face brightened, and he closed his eyes for a moment in concentration. “There!” he cried, pointing off to the north-west.

A thrown spear clattered loudly off the side of the chariot. Khalida yelled out a curse at someone or something, but Alcadizzar couldn’t see what. He searched the battlefield to the north-west—and then he saw it. A strange palanquin made of bone, with legs like a spider, crouching behind a pair of spear companies just thirty yards away. There was a throne atop the palanquin and the king caught sight of a skeletal figure lurking behind it.

Alcadizzar slapped Khalida’s shoulder. “That way!” he yelled, pointing with his sword. “That way!”

The chariot lurched to the right, its axle-blades scything through the legs of several slow-moving skeletons. The rest of the king’s royal guard responded at once, changing course to follow him. Up ahead, the two spear companies saw what was happening and formed into line, linking their shields together and levelling their spears.

Immediately, they became a target for the archers on the wall. Arrows hissed over the chariots and struck the formation; where the enchanted bronze struck bone, a skeleton collapsed in a flash of white. Then Suleiman raised his staff and bellowed in a furious voice. The end of his staff flared like a torch, and a volley of tiny, glowing darts tore into the undead. Dozens fell, their bones incinerated by blasts of intense heat.

Then the chariots crashed into the battered line, smashing skeletons from their feet or grinding them beneath metal-shod wheels. Alcadizzar chopped at skulls and smashed collarbones; every bite of his enchanted blade toppled another skeleton to the ground. The royal guard added their weight to the charge as well, striking at the enemy with bow and blade. In less than a minute, one of the two spear companies was all but destroyed.

Alcadizzar smashed another skeleton to the ground and saw there was nothing standing between them and the palanquin of bone. “Forwards!” he shouted in Khalida’s ear. “Forwards!”

The queen shouted something in reply and lashed at the reins—and then the world dissolved in a blast of heat and greenish light.

 

Arkhan saw the explosion and let out a sulphurous curse. If W’soran was using sorcery like that, then it meant he was under attack.

The liche led his troops through the second gate and emerged into a scene of pandemonium. Enemy cavalry and chariots had struck his companies from the rear and were being caught by arrow fire from along the first wall as well. The spear companies had no archers to support them, as they were all still on the wrong side of the second wall, and so they were suffering heavily. To make matters worse, large companies of enemy infantry were pouring through the first gate and trying to form a battle-line on the other side.

He caught sight of the pennons flapping above the chariots. Khemri? Here? But how? The realisation filled him with a momentary surge of panic. Alcadizzar had turned the entire valley into a trap and he’d walked right into it. Now he was caught between two powerful forces, with few options left.

Cheers rose from the third wall behind Alcadizzar, followed by the first volleys of arrow and catapult fire as the defenders sprang into action. The attack on the Gates of the Dawn had failed, and possibly the entire invasion along with it. Unless he counter-attacked at once, it was likely that he would never break out of the noose that was tightening around his neck.

Arkhan tried to catch sight of W’soran among the chaos. He caught a glimpse of two of the necromancer’s immortals, charging at the wreckage of a destroyed enemy chariot. His first instinct was to try and reach them. If they were lost, then most of the army went with them. But on the other hand, this could be the opportunity he was looking for to be rid of that idiot W’soran and his pets once and for all.

The battle was already lost. The question was whether he would try to save W’soran, or let the bastard hang. When put that way, the answer was an easy one.

With a shout, Arkhan urged his mount forwards. He would lead his troops as far north along the wall as he could, then swing around and try to force his way around the edge of the enemy flank. If he was lucky, he could drive through the gap in the first wall and make good his escape.

 

Someone was dragging him backward. A voice shouted wildly in his ear. Alcadizzar shook his head and tried to open his eyes.

The chariot lay on its side amid a tangle of dead horses, just a few feet away. Blood was everywhere, but the king couldn’t tell whose it was. His sword lay on the ground beside the overturned vehicle, gleaming in the darkness.

And then he saw the slender, bloodied arm poking out from beneath the chariot’s battered hull.

“Khalida!” the king screamed. He twisted in the grip of whoever held him, pulling himself away. A boy cried out—one of his archers?—and someone grabbed for him again. He tore himself away and scrambled forwards on all fours, trying to reach his wife’s hand.

He had almost reached her when he heard a hiss above him. Behind him, the boy screamed. Battlefield instinct caused him to roll to the side, out of the path of the axe that buried itself in the ground beside his head.

Alcadizzar rolled onto his back. A shrivelled, almost skeletal man stood above him, clad in rough, barbaric robes and bits of bronze armour. Swift as a viper, the creature ripped the axe from the ground and rounded on him. That was when he saw the creature’s fangs, and understood what he was facing.

There was a shout and a flare of white light and the creature screamed, clutching at the side of its face. Alcadizzar saw his chance and lunged for his sword. The monster caught the movement and snarled, chasing after him. An arrow punched into its back, the enchanted metal hissing in the dead flesh, but the creature barely broke its stride.

Alcadizzar’s hand closed on the hilt of the sword and he continued to roll as the monster charged at him. The king rose in a kneeling position and swung the enchanted sword at the creature’s midsection. It ran right into the blow and the magical blade parted armour and cloth as though it were paper. The blade sheared the thing in two; the power of its magic shrivelled the creature in an instant, like a leaf caught in a flame.

A dark shape leapt like a cat onto the upturned side of the chariot. It was another of the creatures; its attention was directed upon the wizard, Suleiman, and one of the king’s two young archers. It spat a string of arcane syllables and flung out its hand, and a bolt of greenish lightning leapt for the wizard. But Suleiman was prepared, and raised his staff, blocking the energy with a counter-spell. The bolt detonated with a thunderclap, leaving Alcadizzar’s ears ringing.

Alcadizzar’s second archer—the same boy who’d tried to drag him to safety—saw the monster and drew the short sword at his hip. With a cry he charged at the thing, swinging wildly. The creature snarled at the boy and pointed a clawed finger; there was another flash of light and the archer’s body burst into flames. As the boy collapsed, thrashing and screaming, Suleiman unleashed a sorcerous bolt of his own. The monster deflected the blast with his own counter-spell, hissing in disdain—then his body went rigid as an arrow from the first archer thudded into his forehead. White steam erupted from the creature’s gaping mouth and it fell over onto the ground. Alcadizzar lurched forwards and finished it off with a blow to its neck.

Around them, the tempo of the battle was changing. Cheers were rising from the Nehekharan warriors as the skeletons seemed to be withdrawing—no, not withdrawing, but collapsing where they stood. As the blood-drinkers died, Nagash’s army died with them.

And then an invisible fist seized the overturned chariot and flung it into the air as though it were a child’s toy. It struck Alcadizzar a glancing blow and sent him sprawling.

The king rolled quickly onto his back, and saw two more of the emaciated blood drinkers. They stood at the far end of a magical circle, beside a trio of small, sealed earthenware jars. One of the creatures was clearly a barbarian, but the other wore remnants of Nehekharan robes and clutched a battered leather tome to his chest. The creature seemed to smile at Alcadizzar and lifted his bony hand.

“Beware, great one!” Suleiman cried, rushing forwards to stand between the monster and his king. “See to Khalida! I’ll protect you!”

The Nehekharan laughed, and a bolt of energy leapt from his hand. Suleiman brandished his staff—but the fire ate through it like dry wood and clawed deep into the wizard’s chest. Suleiman let out an agonised groan and fell to the ground.

“Pathetic,” the Nehekharan blood-drinker hissed. He turned to Alcadizzar, and managed a predatory smile. “I have been looking for you, boy,” he snarled. “I just might be able to salvage this disaster if I drag you back to Nagashizzar.” He gestured to the other blood-drinker and spoke in a strange, guttural tongue.

The monster was on Alcadizzar in an instant, seizing his wrists with uncanny strength. Hissing, the creature clenched his hands, until the king felt the bones in his wrists grate together. He groaned in pain but refused to let go his sword.

There was a loud cry, and the surviving archer came to the king’s rescue. He appeared at the monster’s side, chopping his short sword into the blood-drinker’s left wrist. Bones snapped; the creature snarled in irritation and struck the boy a backhanded blow, crushing his skull. But Alcadizzar was able to free his sword-hand and bury the burning blade in the monster’s face.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back, with smoke curling from his breastplate. His ears were ringing and every nerve in his body hummed with pain. The Nehekharan blood-drinker lowered its hand, a look of mild surprise on his face. Evidently the magic forged into his armour by the mountain-lords had saved him from the necromancer’s blast.

Alcadizzar tried to rise, but his legs refused to work. The blood-drinker smiled and said something, but the king couldn’t make out the words. Then, languid as a snake, the monster started to walk towards him. Desperate, Alcadizzar raised his sword and hurled it at the monster with all his strength, but the blood drinker dodged it with contemptuous ease.

The creature took another step—and then, as clear as day, the king heard the twang of a bowstring. Then came a choked scream as the blood-drinker reeled backwards with one of Khalida’s arrows in his eye.

The monster screamed in agony. White steam curled from the ruined eye socket. He fell backwards, fetching up against the clay jars as he fumbled for the arrow shaft. He seized it in his right hand and with a shriek of pain he wrenched the arrow free. Thick ichor bubbled down the side of his face.

Shadows danced at the corners of Alcadizzar’s vision, Dimly, he sensed men crowding around him and the queen. His gaze was fixed on the monster, who shouted and cursed at him from just a dozen yards away. With a final, angry howl, the creature turned his back on the king and smashed one of the jars at his back. To Alcadizzar’s horror, a tide of glossy black beetles poured from the vessel and engulfed the necromancer’s body. Moments later, the insects burst into the air in a buzzing cloud and flew off to the north. Of the necromancer, there was no sign.

Alcadizzar fell back onto the ground. Someone was shouting his name. He turned and saw a pair of royal guardsmen helping Khalida to her feet. She was reaching for him, her eyes wide with fear.

The king’s gaze drifted past her, to the clouds roiling in the sky. As he watched, they began to fade, dispersing like smoke on the wind.

His vision faded. The last thing Alcadizzar felt was the warm touch of sunlight on his cheek.