02 - Nagash the Unbroken (38 page)

Neferata’s hand blurred through the air, seizing Naaima by the throat. One
moment they were racing through the inner sanctum, then the next Naaima was
dangling from Neferata’s iron grip in the middle of the passageway.

“Never speak that name again,” Neferata hissed. Her fangs glinted in the
faint light.
“Never.
Do you understand me?”

It took all her strength to gasp out her reply. “I… I understand,” Naaima
said.

Neferata held her there for several agonising seconds, her face a mask of
madness and rage. Slowly, one heartbeat at a time, the anger ebbed from her
face, until she realised what she was doing. With a start, she released the
former concubine. Naaima hit the floor hard and collapsed, clutching her throat.

“Forgive me,” Neferata said softly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Naaima shook her head. The pain she felt in her heart left her breathless.

“You can’t bring her back,” Naaima gasped. “Nothing you do will bring Khalida
back. Why can’t you see that?”

But there was no answer. Neferata was gone.

Lahmia, The City of the Dawn, in the 98th year of Asaph the
Beautiful

(-1325 Imperial Reckoning)

“Here they come!” the tutor roared in his leathery, field-of-battle voice.
“Get on your feet, boy! Get up!”

Four men in bronze scale armour hefted their weapons and charged across the
training ground, their sandaled feet kicking up plumes of sand as they converged
on their prey. The early morning sun slanted across the square, leaving much of
the ground still in deep shadow except for where young Alcadizzar lay.
Haptshur’s pupil lay in his back in the rocky sand, half-covered by an
overturned chariot. His bare legs were wrapped in the chariot’s traces, and a
heavy sack of grain—representing the body of his dead driver—lay across his
chest. The young man’s shield was strapped to his left arm, but his sword was
ten paces away, back along the chariot’s imagined trail. As a final touch.
Haptshur had smeared pig’s blood over his pupil’s face, taking care to dab it
liberally in the young man’s eyes. The older warrior believed in making his
lessons as realistic and messy as he possibly could—much like the brutal
reality of the battlefield.

Haptshur’s assistants likewise dispensed with any fanciful notions of honour
or fair play—they had no intention of giving Alcadizzar the slightest chance
of extricating himself and getting to his sword. They came at him all in a rush,
intent on chopping him to pieces as quickly and savagely as they could.

Swathed in deep shadow behind a lacquered wooden screen, Neferata watched the
oncoming collision with mounting concern. Accidents happened in training. Even
wooden weapons were more than capable of breaking bones or fracturing skulls,
and if an infection set it, the results were often fatal. It had never happened
to any of Haptshur’s royal pupils, but… She pressed the fingertips of her right
hand against the screen’s fragile wooden vine work, as though willing speed and
strength into the young man’s body.

Not that Alcadizzar needed it; despite his age, the Rasetran prince was
already more than six feet tall, and more powerfully built than the burly
Haptshur and his men. His mother had done everything Neferata had asked of her,
remaining at the temple and drinking a vial of elixir each and every week until
the baby was born, and its effects on the unborn child had been profound.

The young man’s attackers covered the sandy ground in seconds, but Alcadizzar
was already on the move. Cool and calm despite the angry shouts and the blood
stinging his eyes, the young man paused for scarcely a moment to formulate his
plan, and then sprang swiftly into action. Neferata watched as he got his hands
underneath the heavy bag laid across his chest, then with a heave of his
shoulders and arms he flung it backwards, over his head and into the path of the
oncoming men. The projectile caught the attackers momentarily by surprise, but
they recovered almost at once, dodging left and right out of its path, but the
diversion bought Alcadizzar a few more precious seconds.

To Neferata’s surprise, the prince didn’t bother untangling his legs from the
leather traces; instead, he drew back his muscular legs, propped his feet
against the chariot’s wicker rim, and heaved with all his strength. With a creak
of wood and leather, the chariot rolled over onto its side, and Alcadizzar
scrambled after it, disappearing into the open bed.

Now the prince’s attackers pulled up short, suddenly without an easy target
to reach. Alcadizzar had backed into the chariot like a cornered viper, and his
foes could only come at him from one direction. Furthermore, the upper side of
the chariot provided a roof of sorts over Alcadizzar’s head, preventing the men
from raining blows down on him from overhead. They would have to come right at
him, thrusting with their curved khopeshes, which made their task that much more
difficult.

The three men spread out, communicating with one another using glances and
hand gestures. One of the attackers nodded, rushing towards the prince, while
the other two circled around the opposite side of the chariot. Neferata frowned.
What were they up to? Then she understood. While one man kept Alcadizzar
occupied, the others were going to grab the chariot and pull it back upright,
disorientating the prince and leaving him open for a blow from his attacker.

But Alcadizzar had plans of his own. As the first man rushed in, stabbing
awkwardly with his curved blade, his feet came down amid tangled loops of
leather traces that the prince had trailed behind him. At once, Alcadizzar
jerked back on the traces, and the man flew backwards with a yell. The prince
leapt onto him like a desert lion, landing on his chest and pummelling him with
one powerful blow after another. Snarling, the swordsman tried to counterattack,
but Alcadizzar caught his sword-hand by the wrist and cracked his fist across
the other man’s chin, knocking him senseless.

Just then, the chariot lurched, rolling back onto its wheels with a loud
crash. The traces jerked tight, yanking Alcadizzar away from his foe, but not
before he plucked the khopesh from the unconscious man’s hand. He twisted onto
his back as the traces dragged him across the sand, and began trying to kick his
way free of the tangled leather straps.

It took the remaining attackers scarcely a moment to realise what had
happened. They came racing around the back of the chariot, eager to avenge their
fallen friend. Alcadizzar, his legs still trapped, did the only thing he could:
he rolled across the sand towards the charging men, closing the distance more
quickly than they’d expected. The men recovered swiftly, trying to circle around
the oncoming prince, but the young man moved with preternatural speed. His
wooden khopesh slashed through the air, feinting low at one man’s calf, then
cutting suddenly upwards and striking the man in the groin. The attacker fell to
the sand with a muffled groan.

There was a
whack
of wood on flesh. Neferata missed the blow, but saw
the angry red weal rising on Alcadizzar’s right thigh. The prince didn’t utter a
sound at the painful hit; his sword blurred, reaching for the last attacker’s
left arm. The man pulled his arm out of the way just in time—and was caught by
surprise when the prince’s left leg swept into his right foot and knocked him
from his feet. The man hit the sand with a whoosh of tortured breath as the wind
was knocked from his lungs, and before he could recover, Alcadizzar had
scrambled atop him and laid the khopesh’s blade against his throat.

“Enough!” Haptshur cried. At once, Alcadizzar sat back with a grin and tossed
the practice weapon aside. Within moments, the three men who’d been so intent on
giving the prince a thrashing were slapping him on the back and laughing
ruefully as they helped to unwind him from the dust-stained traces.

Haptshur walked over, his leathery face beaming with pride, and tossed the
prince a cloth to wipe the blood from his face.

“He has grown into quite the young man,” Lord Ankhat observed quietly. “I’m
certain his father would be proud if he could see him now.”

Neferata nearly jumped at the sound of the lord’s voice. Ankhat was standing
at the far end of the observation gallery, near the door that led to the secret
corridor back to the temple’s inner sanctum. He was careful to remain completely
in shadow. Even so, the mere proximity of sunlight clearly made him
uncomfortable.

“My lord Ankhat,” Neferata said smoothly. “I didn’t hear your approach.” Once
upon a time, Naaima would have warned her, but she saw little of the former
concubine these days. She kept to herself, spending her evenings in the wild
garden or poring through the tomes in the temple libraries. Neferata had been
offended at first, but then she had become preoccupied with Alcadizzar’s birth,
and after a while she hadn’t missed Naaima’s presence at all.

“Forgive me if I startled you,” Ankhat said with a mirthless smile. “No doubt
your attention was devoted entirely to the young prince.”

Despite herself, Neferata glanced proudly at the prince. He now stood next to
Haptshur, towering head and shoulders over his tutor, his expression intent as
he listened to the burly warrior’s assessment of the fight. Even coated with
dust and smeared with traces of blood, his face was handsome and refined, with a
square chin, strong cheekbones and a sharp nose. Alcadizzar had black hair and
dark, intense eyes that he offset with a brilliant, disarming smile.

“He is a wonder,” Neferata admitted. “A true prince. One day, he will have
the world at his fingertips.” Certainly he had been given the finest education
in the land. Alcadizzar and the other royal children who now lived at the
Lahmian court were lavished with the best of everything. The kings of the other
great cities might resent sending their children to be raised in a foreign
court, but they couldn’t say that their sons and daughters weren’t being treated
as well—or in most cases, better—than they would have at home.

Ankhat studied Neferata intently. “That day is close at hand,” he said.
“There have been letters from Rasetra. The king says that it’s time for
Alcadizzar to assume his duties as King of Khemri.”

“Now? Nonsense!” Neferata exclaimed. “He’s only twenty-five years old!”

“His father became King of Rasetra at his age,” Ankhat pointed out. “People
do not have the span of years that our fathers once did.”

“
He
will,” Neferata said. “Look at him. See what the elixir has
wrought! He’ll live to be a hundred and twenty, perhaps more!”

Ankhat shrugged. “Perhaps so, great one. Nevertheless, he has reached the age
when he should be king in his own right.”

Neferata turned back to the practice field. Alcadizzar was walking away,
still talking with his tutors and rubbing the thick dust from his bare
shoulders. His smile was dazzling against his dark skin. Ubaid waited at the
edge of the field with fresh clothes for the prince; at Neferata’s command, the
former grand vizier had been Alcadizzar’s personal servant since childhood,
allowing her to keep a constant watch over the boy. Even Ubaid seemed to have
been charmed by the young prince’s magnetism; in Alcadizzar’s presence he seemed
to recover a bit of his former poise and presence of mind.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s not ready yet. Tell the Rasetrans
they cannot have him.”

Ankhat blinked. “He belongs to them—”

“He belongs to
me,”
Neferata hissed. “Were it not for me, he would
have died in the womb!
I
made him what he is today, and I say I’m not
finished with him yet!”

The full force of her will hit Ankhat like a gale. He visibly wavered
underneath her stare.

“This is dangerous, great one,” Ankhat managed to say. “The other kings
already resent sending their children to live here as hostages. Refusing to
return Alcadizzar will lead to repercussions.”

Neferata’s eyes narrowed at Ankhat. Her lips drew back slightly, revealing
her fangs. “Are you threatening me?”

Ankhat bristled. “I’m merely pointing out the risks of your… attachment to
the young prince,” he replied. “It is a danger to us all.”

“No,” Neferata said. “That’s where you’re wrong. Alcadizzar is the future.
Through him, we’ll remake all of Nehekhara in our image, and rule over it until
the end of time.”

The practice field was empty now. Neferata hurried down the length of the
gallery, brushing past the stunned Ankhat.

“Tell the Rasetrans whatever you must,” she said to him as she went by.
“Khemri will have a king when I say it is time, and not before.”

Acrid smoke hung in a dense, blue cloud over the ritual circle in the
temple’s arcane sanctum. The incense braziers still burned after the long
night’s work, mingling with the candle smoke and the arcane vapours that W’soran
had learned were efficacious in the summoning of spirits. Over the last
twenty-five years he had summoned countless spirits from the bleak wasteland
beyond death’s door, until now he reckoned himself a master of the art. And yet
his ultimate goal remained stubbornly out of reach.

The very thought of it galled him. W’soran had never been a strong man, but
he reckoned that only one man in all of Nehekhara had ever rivalled him in
matters of intellect. He was not accustomed to the notion of failure where his
studies were concerned.

A glassy-eyed scribe shuffled up to him, holding out the transcript of the
evening’s ritual. W’soran snatched the papyrus from the thrall’s hand and
compared it to the invocations that Nagash had written in the yellowing tome
open on the table before him. His lips pulled back in a snarl at the scribe’s
atrocious handiwork. The thralls made terrible assistants unless the lightest
amount of pressure was brought to bear on their minds, but W’soran had little
patience for such foolishness. He would have preferred the steady, tireless hand
of a skeletal servant, and once again cursed Neferata’s edict forbidding such
creations. She was little better than her dead husband: ambitious, but too timid
to make use of the tremendous power that lay in their hands. The specific tomes
that governed the creation of the undead were locked away in another vault,
along with Arkhan’s notes on the transformation ritual he had used on Neferata.
There they would remain until the end of time, if she were allowed to have her
way.