EPILOGUE

Land of the Dead

Nagashizzar, in the 110th year of Djaf the Terrible
(-1151 Imperial Reckoning)

Alcadizzar haunted the halls of Nagashizzar for days, calling plaintively for a woman that only he could see. His mind shattered by guilt and the torments he’d suffered at the hands of Nagash, he eventually found his way through the fortress gates and onto the shores of the Sour Sea. Still clutching Nagash’s crown, the last king of Khemri disappeared into the wastelands in search of redemption. There are those who believe he wanders there still.

They searched the fortress for the largest furnace they could find and filled it with charcoal from the enormous bins that stood outside the forges. Eshreegar and Eekrit took turns working the bellows, until the fire breathed like a living thing and the heat scorched their whiskers. Then they went and raided the nearest mine shaft for all the sky-stone they could carry.

“Are you sure this is necessary?” the Master of Treacheries said.

“Without doubt,” Eekrit said, tossing a hunk of sky-stone into the furnace.

Eshreegar winced. “Think of the wealth you’re throwing away! Enough to buy your way back into good graces with the Under-Empire three times over! Enough to make yourself a Grey Lord if you wish!”

Another chunk of stone flew into the furnace’s roaring maw. “The mountain is mine now, Eshreegar,” the former warlord growled. “All mine. At this point, I’m richer than the Horned God himself.”

The Master of Treacheries eyed the flames dubiously. “What if Velsquee goes back on his word and forgets he ever agreed to give you the mountain?”

Eekrit sniffed. “He can either have the mountain or the fell blade. Not both.” They had recovered the sword and tossed it back into its lead container with as little physical contact as possible. Now it was hidden deep within the bowels of the mountain, where only the two of them would ever find it. “If he’s smart, he’ll take the blade back and call it even, and Velsquee is nothing if not very, very smart.” He threw another two pieces of stone into the furnace, then gestured at the bellows. “Stoke the furnace while I get the cart.”

Eshreegar sighed and went to the long, wooden lever. With a grunt, he leapt up and grabbed it, then pulled down with all his weight. Air flowed into the furnace, causing it to roar. Within minutes, the sky-stone turned molten and the heat within changed from orange-white to a bright, baleful green.

Eekrit returned a moment later, dragging a small wooden cart. Piled within was every piece of Nagash’s armour and bone they could find. The former warlord stared down at the remains and shook his head. “I still don’t see how we missed his right hand. It couldn’t have just crawled off on its own.”

Eshreegar shook his head. “We searched every inch of that dais. If it were there, we would have found it. Nagash’s prisoner must have taken it with him, along with the crown. Nothing else makes sense.”

Eekrit sighed irritably. “Perhaps.” He reached in and rummaged through the pile.

“Do you really think this will destroy him for good?” Eshreegar asked, eyeing the roaring furnace.

“I have no idea,” Eekrit replied. “This is for my own personal pleasure.”

He grunted in satisfaction, and pulled Nagash’s grinning skull from the pile. Eekrit stared at it for a long moment, peering into the depths of its empty eye sockets.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a very long time,” he said, and tossed the skull into the flames.

High above the ancient mountain, a plume of faintly glowing smoke rose from one of the fortress’ many chimneys. Ashes from the seething fire below rose into the air and were scattered on the high winds, spreading across the bleak and blasted land.

Riding high on the swift-moving wind, the ashes travelled for miles before falling back to earth. One mote in particular rode the currents westwards, tumbling through the updraughts over the Brittle Peaks and then gliding lazily downwards again in a long, surprisingly straight path along the bloody line of the dead River Vitae.

Over the silent land of Nehekhara, the tiny mote of ash drifted, until it came to the vast city of the dead that lay beside the river just east of Khemri. There it began to settle, waving this way and that like a leaf on the breeze, until at last it alighted upon the tip of a towering black pyramid, whose matt black sides seemed to swallow the light of the sun.

By some curious trick of the air currents, the mote of ash was drawn inside the pyramid, slipping through narrow airshafts until it reached the very heart of the giant crypt. There, in an octagonal chamber whose walls were carved with hundreds of complex runes, sat an open sarcophagus of black stone.

Silent, unobserved, the mote of ash settled within the sarcophagus of Nagash, the Undying King.

And there it waited.