02 - Nagash the Unbroken (24 page)

The rest of that first night was spent sitting vigil at the queen’s side and
poring through the Usurper’s tomes in search of an incantation or ritual that
might banish the poison from the queen’s blood. Hours passed, and Neferata began
to turn pale. Her breath was still very faint, and only Arkhan’s preternatural
senses allowed him to hear a heartbeat. So far, the elixir was holding the
poison at bay, but she was clearly weakening. As dawn began to break, far out to
sea, Arkhan was no closer to finding a solution. He had Aiyah draw the curtains
tight across the tall windows and continued his search. By the time night fell
once more, he still had nothing to show for his efforts, and the queen’s
condition was becoming steadily worse.

Growing desperate, Arkhan set the books aside and placed the queen’s body
inside the ritual circle. Aiyah watched the immortal spread open three magical
tomes on the floor by the circle, then gather up the inkpot and horsehair brush
once more.

“Undress her,” he said to the handmaiden, and then began riffling through the
pages of the three books.

The young woman hesitated. “What do you intend to do?” she asked coolly.

Arkhan shot the handmaiden a hard stare. “She will need help to overcome the
poison in her veins,” he said. “So far, her… blood is strong enough to at least
slow the venom’s progress.” He paused, studying a detailed drawing of a human
figure on one yellowed page. After a moment he shook his head and continued his
search. “So I must find a way to increase her vigour enough to overcome it.”

The handmaiden took a step towards the circle and frowned. Her dark eyes
lingered on the strange markings painted on the floor. “I could send for an
apothecary,” she offered. “The priestesses of Neru have tended to the health of
the royal line for centuries. They have experience with poisons—”

“If I thought there was an herb or potion that could save her, I would have
carried her to the temple myself,” Arkhan snapped.

Aiyah took a deep breath. “But this,” she began. “What you’re doing—”

“What I am doing is trying to save your queen,” the immortal said. He paused
in his search, studied another image, and nodded to himself. Arkhan removed the
inkpot’s ceramic stopper. “The longer we wait, the weaker she becomes,” he told
her.

The handmaiden hesitated a moment more, brows knitted in consternation,
before making her decision. She knelt carefully within the circle and began to
deftly pull away Neferata’s robes.

Arkhan laid out the runes with care. The work took hours, winding in
intricate ribbons from Neferata’s scalp to her toes. The immortal was conscious
of each minute slipping away; it seemed to him that her skin was growing
steadily cooler beneath his touch.

It was well past the hour of the dead by the time the preparations were
complete. Arkhan stood and pressed the book into Aiyah’s, hands. “Go and stand
at the edge of the circle, by her feet,” he said. “When I begin, repeat the
words as I say them. They are marked on the page there.”

Aiyah looked dubious, but accepted the tome nonetheless. “Is that all?”

“Do you wish the queen to live?” he asked.

“Of course!”

“Then make that uppermost in your mind,” Arkhan told her. “Think of nothing
else. With luck, it will be enough.”

Arkhan took his place on the opposite side of the circle. Standing at the
head of the queen, he spread his arms and began to chant.

The ritual was little different from the incantation of reaping that was used
to create Nagash’s elixir. He had made several modifications to the arrangement
of the runes to account for the elixir already present in her body. He wasn’t
interested in transmutation so much as enhancing what was already there. In
theory, the problem seemed simple enough.

Drawing on the surfeit of elixir filling his body, Arkhan poured a steady
stream of power into the incantation. At once the air grew heavy above the
circle, and he saw the queen’s body begin to tremble. Tiny wisps of steam curled
from the sigils painted on her skin.

The immortal felt the elixir boil inside him and directed the released energy
into the arcane words rolling from his lips. And, within the circle, Neferata’s
body suddenly spasmed. Her back arched painfully, arms splayed and chest thrust
skyward. Arkhan could see the tendons in her neck and along the backs of her
hands grow taut as bowstrings; her mouth gaped, emitting a billowing gout of
black vapour.

Arkhan watched as the queen’s skin began to change. Her rich, brown skin,
already pale, began to lose all trace of colour, taking on the cold tone of
bleached linen or alabaster. He stopped the incantation abruptly, fearing that
he might already be too late. The backlash of forces tore through him; he
staggered, his hand going to his chest as invisible knives tore through his
vitals. A thin trickle of ichor ran down his chin.

The immortal sank slowly to his knees. Neferata’s body had gone limp again,
shrouded in tendrils of steam. The runes painted on her skin had already begun
to fade, running together in dark blue threads that formed pools on the stone
floor. Aiyah sank to her knees, her eyes wide with shock. She crawled gingerly
into the circle and laid a trembling hand against Neferata’s flank. The
handmaiden jerked her fingers away as though stung.

“She’s cold,” Aiyah said. “Colder than the desert night. What happened? What
have you done?”

Arkhan stared at the queen’s near-lifeless form. The runes had all but melted
away in the heat that had radiated from her skin. Beneath the bluish tinge of
the ink, he could see that her veins had turned black at her temples and throat.

The immortal rubbed the back of a hand across his lips. It came away slick
with a film of ichor. Anger and revulsion roiled in his chest. What horror had
Lamashizzar unleashed?

“I don’t know,” Arkhan said in a hollow voice.

Five more days went by. Arkhan never relented, searching through Nagash’s
books again and again for something he could use to defeat the sphinx’s venom.
The queen scarcely breathed now; her flesh was cold and stiff as marble. Her
heart still beat, stubbornly driving the elixir through her veins, but it had
grown inexorably weaker with each passing night. Every ritual he attempted, no
matter how great or small, only seemed to worsen her condition. It seemed that
the sphinx’s deadly venom had somehow bonded with Neferata’s ensorcelled blood,
transforming it from within. Any attempt to increase the elixir’s vigour
empowered the poison as well.

Now, as the seventh night fell upon the city, Arkhan believed he knew the
answer. He sat at Neferata’s writing desk and studied the words and symbols of
the incantation one last time, checking carefully to ensure he’d made no errors.
Satisfied, he took the large sheet of paper and set it on the floor at the edge
of the circle. Next, he laid out the tools for the ritual with care, and then
went to kneel at the queen’s side. The immortal took her limp body in his arms
and carried Neferata to her bed. He laid her body gently upon the silken sheets,
and then returned to the freshly-drawn ritual he’d made. Arkhan took off his
sword belt, and then let his robes fall to the floor. He turned to Aiyah and
spread his arms.

“Follow the diagrams exactly,” he said to her. “The symbols and their
positions are crucial, or the energies will not conduct properly.”

The handmaiden nodded, but Arkhan could see the weariness and apprehension in
her eyes. She had laboured every bit as hard as he had, yet without the benefits
of the elixir to sustain her. When she wasn’t participating in Arkhan’s rituals
she was trying to glean information about Lamashizzar and the other members of
the cabal. Despite her best efforts, however, there was no way to find out who
had chosen to side with the king in the wake of Neferata’s disappearance. All
that could be learned was that the king was incommunicado, conferring with his
advisors. Arkhan knew he was simply waiting for news that the queen had
succumbed at last. With luck, the king’s strategy could be used against him. He
had ceded the initiative to Neferata, if only she could make use of it.

This was their last chance. If this ritual failed, Arkhan was certain that
the queen would not last until the dawn.

Aiyah stepped forward, brush and inkpot in hand. She studied the paper
carefully for a moment, then dipped the brush in the inkpot and went to work.
Her brushstrokes were tentative at first, but her confidence increased steadily
as the hours went by and the ribbons of arcane symbols wove their way along
Arkhan’s skin. Still, it was close to dawn by the time the last symbols were
inscribed upon the immortal’s flesh.

“Well done,” Arkhan said, and hoped it was true. There was no way he could
tell for certain. “Now, quickly, take your place at the circle. There is very
little time left.”

The immortal went and stood in the centre of the circle. “No matter what
happens to me, do not falter,” he told the handmaiden. “Complete the
incantation, no matter what. Do you understand?”

Aiyah nodded. Her eyes were now wide with fear.

“Then let us begin,” he said gravely. “We are almost out of time.”

As before, they chanted the incantation together. At once, the immortal felt
his veins begin to burn as the ritual tapped into his remaining reserves of
elixir. But rather than draw out the stolen power, this ritual was meant to
shape it instead, transforming it into a tool designed for a very specific
purpose. Arkhan gritted his teeth as stabbing pains shot through his torso and
limbs. His vision began to dissolve into a reddish fog, and a hollow roaring
filled his ears. His skin drew painfully tight, until he thought it would split
apart, but through it all, his chant never faltered. He’d suffered far worse in
the past.

Time lost all meaning for the immortal. The incantation went on forever, and
the agony only grew worse, until it was as boundless as the desert itself.
Arkhan’s voice was little more than a ragged howl of pain, but he still spat out
the words that kept the incantation going. His entire body was afire; a small
part of his mind was certain that his flesh and bones were melting in the heat.

An eternity passed. He did not feel the culmination of the ritual when it
finally arrived; for him, there was only a shift in the roaring whirlwind that
filled his ears, signifying that Aiyah had finished her chant. It took several
long moments before she could make him understand anything else.

“Now?” her voice echoed in his skull. It sounded small and far away.

Arkhan tried to see beyond the red mist that filled his vision. He nodded, or
at least he thought that he did. “The… knife…” he gasped. The words sounded
impossibly loud.

Aiyah let the page fall from her fingers. Her gaze fell to the small, curved
knife at her feet. The edge, honed to a razor’s sharpness, gleamed bright in the
lamplight. When she tried to speak again, her voice caught in her throat. “Are—are you certain?”

The immortal responded with a tortured groan that made the handmaiden flinch.
“Do it!” he moaned. His eyes were orbs of dark red, the pupils completely
obscured, and yet she could feel the weight of his stare. “This is… her only
hope,” Arkhan continued. “She is certain… to die… otherwise.”

Aiyah took a deep breath. Swiftly, she bent and took up the knife. It felt
terribly heavy in her hand.

She crossed to the bed. But for her unnaturally white skin, the queen might
have been sleeping, lost in a deep lotus-dream. Aiyah laid a trembling hand upon
the queen’s forehead, grimacing at how cold she felt.

“Asaph forgive me,” the handmaiden said faintly. Then she took the knife and
sliced open the side of Neferata’s throat.

Black liquid, hot and foul-smelling, poured from the wound and spread across
the silken sheets. Neferata shuddered faintly, then went deathly still.

“It’s done,” the handmaiden said, stepping back from the bed to avoid the
rain of droplets pattering on the floor.

“Good,” the immortal replied. He climbed unsteadily to his feet. He beckoned
to her. “Help me. Quickly.”

Aiyah hurried to Arkhan and took his outstretched hand. She led him,
stumbling, to the queen’s side.

The immortal knelt beside her, leaning in until his face was inches from
hers. He nodded. “Not long now,” he rasped. “Hand me the blade.”

Aiyah handed over the knife and stepped back, wringing her hands. “I never
imagined there would be so much,” she said, staring in horror at the spreading
pool of ichor. “I’ve killed her. She’s going to die!”

“It must be done,” Arkhan insisted. “Her blood has been corrupted. Can’t you
see? We have to remove it, or she is doomed.”

The immortal watched in silence for another minute, watching the flood of
ichor slowly ebb away. When it had become no more than a trickle, he took the
knife in his left hand and pressed the point into the skin of his right forearm,
just behind the wrist. He cut deep, slicing open one of the major veins. There
was no pain. All he could feel now was fear.

The knife clanged to the floor. Left hand trembling, he cupped the back of
Neferata’s head and raised it from the sodden pillow. “Live, oh queen,” he said,
his voice shaking as he pressed the pulsing wound to her pale lips. “Drink of
me, and live.”

Arkhan felt her body tremble as the ichor touched her lips. His skin tingled
as her lips brushed the inside of his forearm; they moved against his skin,
almost like a kiss, and then she began to drink.

“Yes…
yes!” Arkhan breathed. The red mist began to recede.
“Drink!”

And she did. Hungrily, greedily, with gathering strength, she drew the liquid
from the wound. Her mouth opened, teeth pressing into his flesh. Arkhan clenched
his fist. As he watched, the cut in her neck closed up with startling speed.

“It’s working!” he gasped. “Aiyah, do you see? It’s working!”