Nagash the Sorcerer by Mike Lee

Author:Mike Lee
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2011-02-24T16:00:00+00:00

BOOK TWO

SEVENTEEN

Attack And Retreat

Bel Aliad, the City of Spices, in the 63rd year of Ptra the Glorious

(-1744 Imperial Reckoning)

The date wine was thick and cloyingly sweet. Akhmen-hotep grimaced as he raised the cup to his lips and took another draught. Inside the king’s tent, the air was cold and still. No oil lamps had been lit, nor were there any coals banked against the night’s chill. Only a pair of wide-eyed slaves attended upon the king, kneeling fearfully at either side of the tent’s entrance.

Akhmen-hotep’s tent faced west, letting in long, slanting beams of moonlight as the linen entry flap was pulled aside. Outside, the camp was quiet save for the distant music of Neru’s acolytes as they performed their midnight vigil. The king raised his eyes to the round figure silhouetted in the moon’s cold radiance.

‘What do you want, brother?’ he asked, in a voice roughened by many cups of wine.

Memnet did not reply at first. The Grand Hierophant stood in the entryway for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, and then shuffled wearily inside and settled in a chair close to the king. He gestured, and a slave crawled swiftly across the sandy floor to press a cup into the high priest’s hand.

‘I thought you and I could share a drink,’ Memnet said thoughtfully, sniffing at the strong smell of the dates. He made a face. ‘No water for the wine?’ Akhmen-hotep took another sip.

‘I do not drink it for the taste,’ he said quietly.

The Grand Hierophant nodded, but said nothing. He took a tentative sip of the wine, before saying, ‘You cannot blame yourself for what happened. It’s the nature of war.’

‘War,’ Akhmen-hotep growled into his cup. ‘This is not war as our fathers knew it. This… this is grotesque!’ He drained the dregs and glared at one of the slaves, who crawled forwards with a fresh jug of wine. ‘And the harder we fight, the worse it becomes.’ He turned abruptly, causing the slave to slosh the syrupy wine over the king’s hand.

‘What is happening to us, brother?’ Akhmen-hotep asked. His handsome features were etched with despair. ‘Have the gods forsaken us? Everywhere I turn, all I see is death and ruin.’ He held the brimming cup before him, his dark eyes bleak. ‘Sometimes I fear that even if we do defeat the Usurper, we’ll never be free of his taint.’ Memnet stared into his cup for some time. He took another sip.

‘Perhaps we are not meant to be,’ he said quietly. The king grew very still.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

Memnet did not answer at first. His expression grew haunted, and Akhmen-hotep saw how ravaged his features had become since that fateful day at Zedri. The priest’s face was like an ill-fitting mask, resting uneasily upon his skull. He took a deeper draught of the wine and sighed heavily.

‘Nothing is eternal,’ he said at last. ‘No matter what we believe.’ The high priest sat back in his chair, turning the polished cup in his hands.

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