—<TWENTY-EIGHT>—

The Edge of Victory

Lahmia, the Cursed City, in the 110th year of Phatkh the Just
(-1161 Imperial Reckoning)

Though Nagash’s army had been defeated at the Gates of the Dawn, Alcadizzar’s injuries threw the western army into disarray. The king’s chirurgeons debated whether to try to treat his injuries on the battlefield, or send him to Quatar, many miles away. The rulers of Numas and Zandri both attempted to take charge of the army in the king’s absence, issuing conflicting orders from different parts of the battlefield that took hours for the paralysed forces to sort out. By the time Queen Khalida had recovered enough from her own injuries to take charge, the last remnant of Nagash’s army had broken out of the trap and fled eastwards down the Valley of Kings.

By dawn of the next day, it appeared that the king would survive his injuries. Alcadizzar awoke with his wife beside him and dispelled any notion that he would be sent off to the gloomy city of Quatar for his recovery. Instead, he ordered the army to strike camp and pursue their retreating foes.

Nagash’s army withdrew from the Valley of Kings and continued eastwards, where two weeks later it was joined by the remnants of the undead forces that had laid siege to Lybaras. Though the undead had succeeded in breaching the city’s walls, the timely arrival of reinforcements from Rasetra had broken the siege and slain two of W’soran’s four surviving progeny.

Pursued now by the combined armies of east and west, Nagash’s warriors fought a bitter, running battle all the way back to the ruined city of Lahmia. Companies of spearmen and cavalry were sacrificed to stage vicious ambushes and night attacks on the Nehekharans, while the rest marched tirelessly onwards towards their goal. Again and again, Alcadizzar tried to pin down the enemy with attacks from his cavalry, but the undead army simply shed another sacrificial rearguard, like a lizard giving up its own tail, while the rest escaped. Fields of shattered bone stretched along the great trade road for miles.

The last battle was fought at the edge of the Golden Plain, just miles from the Cursed City. W’soran’s surviving immortals and their skeletal warriors had occupied the decrepit forts guarding the narrow pass that led to the city, and held off the Nehekharan armies for weeks before they were overcome. By the time Alcadizzar reached Lahmia, the city was deserted. Arkhan and the last remnants of Nagash’s vast host had boarded their ships and escaped.

Lahmia’s docks had not been so alive in decades. Men from Zandri and Khemri—seamen and rivermen, who knew the ways of boats and the sea—were walking the city’s old quays and inspecting the scores of silent, fat-bellied troop ships that the enemy had left behind. As Alcadizzar watched, a number of intrepid souls had found a pair of large skiffs that were still mostly seaworthy and were in the process of towing one of the huge troop ships up to the docks.

It was a sunny day in early spring, warm and damp with the promise of rain. The city still smelled of cinders, almost forty years after its fall. The king sat astride a lean desert horse and watched the activity on the docks from an empty square a short way uphill. A small group of royal guardsmen sat their horses a discreet distance away, allowing him to be alone with his thoughts. The chirurgeons encouraged him to ride when he could, saying that exercise would help speed his recovery.

Alcadizzar had his doubts. He leaned back in the saddle, wincing at the pains in his knees, hips and back. The chirurgeons had all done their best, he knew. He suspected that the aches he felt had less to do with the blood-drinker’s magic and more to do with the fact that he was a hundred and eighty-nine years old. The power of Neferata’s elixir was just a memory now, but he still seemed to age far slower than his peers. He looked like a man no more than a hundred—past the prime of his life, but with a good many years left in him, if he was careful. A time when most men put aside their work and tried to enjoy all the good things they’d earned.

Hoofbeats drummed along the cracked cobblestones across the square, shaking the king from his reverie. He glanced over to see Ophiria walking her horse towards him. Her hooded servant, the chosen of Khsar, reined in at the edge of the square, a discreet distance from both the Daughter of the Sands and the royal guardsmen.

The king managed a tired smile as the seer came up alongside him. “This is a surprise,” he said. “I hadn’t expected to see you inside the city.”

Ophiria scowled suspiciously at the empty buildings along the square. Rather than find lodgings inside Lahmia, like the rest of the army, the tribesmen had pitched their tents up on the Golden Plain, near the ruins of the border forts. They shunned the city, convinced it was truly cursed ground.

“You didn’t look as though you were coming out any time soon, so I decided to come in after you,” she replied.

Alcadizzar chuckled and spread his hands. “If you’re expecting tea, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

The Daughter of the Sands smiled sadly. “No,” she said. “No time for that now, I’m afraid. I’ve come to say goodbye.”

The king sighed. “I’d hoped that Muktadir and his riders would stay with us a while longer.”

Ophiria shook her head. “Muktadir is a good son. He promised his father on his deathbed that when Nagash returned, the tribes would help drive the Usurper from the land. That promise has been kept and now he longs to return home, where his new wife waits for him.”

Alcadizzar nodded. “I understand,” he said, a little wistfully. “Truly, I do.” He glanced over at the seer and gave her a mischievous grin. “The barges are waiting to carry you back to Khemri.”

Ophiria grimaced. “Never again, by the gods!” She put her hand to her belly. “I’d rather be dragged to Bhagar from the back of a horse.” The seer shook her head. “The next time I want to see a man tortured I’ll have him carried to the river and tied to a barge for a week.”

The two shared a rueful laugh. Alcadizzar reached over and took her hand. “Safe journeys, Ophiria. You will always be welcome at the court in Khemri.”

Ophiria studied the king for a long moment. “You are a good man, Alcadizzar, and my people owe you a great deal. For that you have my thanks.” She glanced away from him then, looking down the hill at the docks. “You are contemplating another voyage,” she observed.

The smile faded from Alcadizzar’s face. “The war’s not over yet,” he said gravely. “As soon as we can put together a fleet, we’re going after Nagash.” He pointed down at the abandoned ships. “My men are examining those bone ships to see if we can rig them with oars or sails. We’ll head up the strait, find the Usurper’s lair, and deal with him once and for all.” He sighed again. “Then, perhaps, I can finally rest.”

“I hope so,” Ophiria replied, her voice sad. For a moment, it looked as though she were about to leave, but then she paused, as though there was something more she wanted to say.

Alcadizzar frowned. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

Ophiria did not reply at first. She stared out at the sea for a time, as though wrestling with what she ought to say. Finally, she turned to the king. “Will you do one thing for me, before you go?” she asked.

“Of course. Anything,” Alcadizzar said.

“Send Khalida home,” she said. “That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Alcadizzar said, his eyes widening. “Can’t I do something simple instead, like emptying out the sea, or counting the stars in the sky?” He chuckled. “She’ll never go, especially not after what happened at the Gates of the Dawn.” The brush with death had wiped away all the years of tension and resentments that had grown up between them. Now they rarely spent more than a few hours apart each day. “If you think she should go back to Khemri, then you should tell her.”

“She won’t listen to me. I’m just her aunt.” Ophiria protested.

“You think she’ll listen to me? I’m just her husband,” Alcadizzar said. He frowned. “What’s all this about?”

“Nothing.” Ophiria shifted uncomfortably. “Her children need her, that’s all.”

The king gave the seer a long look.

“You’ve seen something, haven’t you?”

Ophiria grimaced. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” She jerked on the reins, trying to turn her horse about.

The king bent down and took hold of the horse’s bridle. “Too late for that now,” he said gravely. “What is it?”

Ophiria stared at the king. “If you go north to face Nagash, you will triumph,” she said slowly. “But you will not return.”

Alcadizzar let go the bridle and sat back, stunned. “I don’t believe it.”

The seer nodded in understanding. “I’m sorry. But that’s the way of it.”

“No,” the king said. “You’re mistaken. I can’t die now.” He took in the ruined buildings of the square with an angry sweep of his hand. “First Lahmia, then Nagash, and now this? I’ve given everything for this land, Ophiria. Everything I’ve done was for Nehekhara’s sake. A hundred and eighty-nine years, and hardly a day of it was ever truly mine.”

“You’re a great king,” she said sadly. “Perhaps the greatest Nehekhara has ever known.”

“But what about me?” Alcadizzar said. “Where is the justice in this? There’s so much I’ve waited to do. I’ve hardly even begun.”

“I know,” Ophiria said sombrely. “Believe me, Alcadizzar. I know what it’s like to sacrifice everything for a higher calling.” She shook her head. “But we cannot choose our fate.”

“Then what’s the point?” Alcadizzar cried. “What’s the point of all this horror and suffering, if not to earn the right to live as we wish, for however many years we’re given?”

A tear trickled down the seer’s wrinkled cheek. “I cannot say,” she replied. Ophiria reached forwards and laid a hand on his cheek.

“Goodbye, Alcadizzar, King of Kings. I wish you well, in this life and the next.”

The Daughter of the Sands tugged on the reins, turning her horse about and heading back across the square. The king watched her and her hooded servant head west, deeper into the city, until the two riders were lost from sight.

Evening was drawing on when Alcadizzar arrived at the palace. Thunder rumbled faintly to the east, heralding the coming storm.

The king found Khalida deep amid the ruins of the Temple of Blood, surrounded by her maids and a cadre of keen-eyed guardsmen. The ancient garden at its heart had survived the worst of the fire, and was now a tangled, green wilderness.

Most of the paths through the garden had vanished, swallowed up by ferns and creeping vines. Only the widest, stone-flagged paths survived. One led straight to the centre of the garden, where Khalida rested by the bole of a gnarled old tree and tossed breadcrumbs into the brackish pond nearby.

Alcadizzar strode softly over the thick grass and settled down beside her. The queen turned, smiling, and kissed his cheek. “There you are,” she said. “Have you been down at the docks all this time?”

“Mostly,” the king said, his gaze wandering about the clearing. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard a rumour that there were still fish in the pond,” Khalida said. “Giant carp, the colour of gold coins. I’ve been trying to coax them out with some crumbs.”

Alcadizzar turned back to Khalida. He reached up and gently swept a strand of dark hair away from her face. “How do you feel?”

The queen smiled. “A little better every day.” She had broken two ribs and an ankle when the chariot flipped during the battle and they had been slow to heal.

“Are you up for a long journey?” the king asked.

Khalida’s smile faded. “Why?”

Alcadizzar leaned forwards and kissed her gently on the lips. “Because I think it’s time we returned to Khemri.”

Khalida’s expression turned sombre. “What about Nagash?”

The king was silent for a long moment. “We’ve beaten him. His army has been destroyed. That’s victory enough for me.” He put his arm around Khalida and pulled her close, careful of her ribs. “I’ve fought enough for two lifetimes. Now I just want my wife and children beside me.”

The queen looked up at him. “Do you mean it?”

“With all my heart.”

Khalida smiled. “Then let’s go home.”

Three weeks after escaping the Cursed City, Arkhan the Black beached his ship of bone on the shores of the Sour Sea, beneath Nagashizzar’s shadow. He marched into the fortress with fifty thousand warriors—a formidable army by mortal standards, but little more than a tenth of the vast host he had been given.

When Nagash learned of his army’s defeat, his wrath was terrible to behold. The sound of his fury thundered through the halls of the fortress and sent tremors through the tunnels below. For seven days and seven nights the air above the mountain roiled like an angry sea and spat forks of green lightning that lit the blighted land for miles.

And then, after the seventh night, the thunder subsided, and the mountain grew still. An ominous silence descended over Nagashizzar, more fearsome and portentous than all the days of fury combined.

“I don’t like the looks of this,” Eshreegar muttered as the black-toothed liche emerged from the tunnel.

It had been a month since Nagash’s army had returned to the fortress in defeat. Many times, while the fortress halls had been all but empty of the undead, Eekrit and Eshreegar had debated on whether the time had come to unseal Grey Lord Velsquee’s chest and make use of the weapon inside. Each time, Eekrit’s instinct was to wait, fearing that, even without an army, Nagash was still far too powerful to face. The storm of fury that had wracked the fortress—nay, the entire mountain—upon the army’s return convinced Eekrit that he’d been absolutely right.

Beneath the mountain, it was still business as usual. Nagash’s hunger for slaves had shown no signs of abating, and the work in the mines continued without pause. Across the cavern, the latest shipment of greenskins snorted and bellowed in their guttural tongue as the undead arrived to make their trade.

Eekrit’s ears twitched. Something was different. There were many more skeletons this time. A great many more, in fact, all carrying chests or stacks of flat, square boxes, sealed with lead. As the liche looked on, the skeletons carried half of the chests over to the scales, as usual, then deposited the rest at Eekrit’s feet.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

The liche turned to Eekrit. His skull was blackened in places, his armour scorched and battered. He looked as though a giant had grabbed him by the ankles and used him to beat out a rather stubborn fire.

“My master wishes to make a new arrangement,” the liche grated. One leg dragged slightly as he stepped forwards and indicated the chests and boxes arranged before Eekrit. “In addition to the usual amount for slaves, he will pay double for you to carry these chests to the source of the River Vitae and empty their contents into the water.”

Eekrit eyed the boxes warily. Each one was marked with a complex pattern of runes and arcane symbols. “What’s inside them?”

“Death,” the liche said.

“Ah.” Eekrit replied. He spread his paws. “We, ah, have never heard of this river.”

“It feeds all of Nehekhara,” the liche said. “Its source is a tarn, high in the mountains to the south-west.”

“Where—”

“Find it,” the undead creature rasped. “Unless you do not wish to have the stone?”

“No!” Eekrit said. “I mean—yes, we want the stone.” He glanced at Eshreegar. “No doubt something can be arranged.”

“There will be more,” the liche said. “Deliver them all to the tarn, and you will be well paid.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Eekrit replied, though he felt anything but. “What is all this for, if you don’t mind me asking?”

The liche glared at him.

“The Nehekharans will die before they serve my master,” he said. “And so they shall have their wish.”