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Picking the Bones - Mike Lee

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Picking the Bones

Mike Lee

For days, Nehekara had been shrouded in gloom. Clouds of ash and the dust of broken tombs had been drawn up into the air by the power of Nagash’s ritual, blotting out the light of sun and moons alike. Summoned by the will of the Undying King, the risen dead had marched towards Nagashizzar beneath a veil of never-ending darkness.

At the time, riding out from Khemri with countless thousands of revenants at his back, Arkhan had turned his burning gaze to the clouds and imagined them continuing to spread, seeping like a great stain across the face of the entire world. Nagash’s final victory was at hand, and the days of the living were numbered.

So it had seemed. But then the unthinkable occurred.

Now the mantle of cloud was roiling like an angry sea, churned by a bitter wind blowing from the desert to the south. The great pall of darkness was ebbing slowly, creeping eastward like an outgoing tide. The great ritual had been undone. Arkhan had felt his master’s demise, as had every one of the risen corpses across the land. The fact of it had been seared into his bones.

Arkhan did not care how it had happened, or why. All that mattered now was reaching Nagashizzar, and claiming all that remained.

The liche rode north and east through the barren foothills of the Brittle Peaks, making for the river of blood as fast as his skeletal horse could carry him. Nine black-armoured wights galloped in his wake. They were all that remained of the hundred that had ridden into Khemri with him, just a few months before. The others – along with the rest of his army – had been sacrificed on the Great Trade Road to buy his escape. From the flashes of green light that lit the undersides of the clouds, and the brittle thunder of detonations to the south, the fighting had yet to abate.

The dark riders galloped across a stretch of treacherous, rocky flatland, then reached the base of another low, rounded hill. Arkhan hissed, gripping the reins and putting his heels to the horse’s flanks, as if the mount still had flesh and nerves to respond to his urgings. The undead horse lunged up the slope, sinew creaking and heavy bones knocking hollowly together. Though slower than living horses, the undead creatures were tireless and strong. Arkhan had ridden day and night, racing the receding gloom, and meant to keep on going until their hooves splintered and their leg bones split. Quatar and the Gates of the Dead were closed to him, so he would have to take the longer, more circuitous route through the wasteland north and east of the great river. That would give the forces east of the Brittle Peaks a sizeable lead in the race to the fortress.

The army that Arkhan had led from Nagashizzar many months before had been far smaller than the mighty invasion force he had commanded against Alcadizaar: barely sixty thousand strong, and composed of spearmen, archers and swift-moving cavalry. He had been compelled to divide the force even further once it had reached Lahmia. Nagash’s orders had been explicit: slaughter the last survivors of the Nehekaran people and capture Alcadizaar within six months, and return the defeated king to Nagashizzar before the new moon of the seventh. And so, from Lahmia, he’d despatched two of his lieutenants and twenty thousand warriors to head southwest, to wipe out the last dregs of humanity in the plague-ravaged cities of Lybaras and Rasetra. Then, at Quatar, after passing the ruins of Mahrak and scouring the Valley of Kings, Arkhan had sent another lieutenant and ten thousand warriors south to wipe out the desert dwellers at Bhagar and the city of Ka-Sabar. At Khemri, once Alcadizaar’s pitiful army had been destroyed, a fourth lieutenant had taken ten thousand warriors north to destroy Numas, and then two smaller detachments were sent south and west to deal with Bel Aliad and Zandri by the sea. He’d heard nothing from his subordinates since then, but had no reason to believe that they had failed in their tasks. Now he imagined every one of them doing just the same as he: racing across the empty land, avoiding the wrath of the risen priest kings where they could, and thinking of the power now left unguarded at the Undying King’s mountain fortress.

Hooves drumming the dead earth, the dark riders crested the hill. On the far side was a long, gentle slope, and beyond, perhaps a mile or so away, was the dark ribbon of the great river.

Arkhan and his bodyguard pressed on, their mounts gathering speed as they swept down the rocky slope. As he went, he studied the horizon to the north and west, looking for telltales of battle, or the dust trail of an army on the march. If the force sent to Numas had survived, it stood to reason that it would be following much the same course as he. But try as he might, Arkhan’s burning gaze could not penetrate the gloom that lingered past the river’s opposite bank.

The wide river shone a glossy black in the darkness. Once the source of all life in Nehekara, now the River Vitae ran red and thick as clotting blood. Arkhan urged his mount to greater speed, spurring it not with his heels now, but the lash of his will. The wights flogged their horses as well, filling the air with their wailing cries.

The dark riders thundered down the slope. As they approached the turgid waters, Arkhan raised a bony fist and began to chant. The invocation hissed past his jagged teeth, calling to the magic coursing through the aether. The skeletal horses leapt ahead, their hooves flashing over the dusty ground. Faster and faster they went, and the spaces between hoofbeats lengthened, until they scarcely touched the earth at all.

In moments, the dark riders reached the foot of the slope and onto the reeking bank of the river. Still gathering speed, the horses plunged into the river – but instead of sinking, they seemed to glide across the surface of the poisoned water. Their hoofbeats left curls of glistening vapour in their wake. Swift as a loosed arrow, light as the desert wind, the dark riders crossed the wide river in a matter of moments.

Arkhan reined in his mount on the far bank. The liche slumped in the saddle, his senses reeling. The invocation had been something of an improvisation on his part, and the strain had been profound. His wight bodyguards formed a protective ring about him, their glowing eyes searching the shadows along the hillsides to the north.

The liche allowed himself a few moments to regain his wits before pressing on. Silence stretched upon the riverbank. Far in the distance, a jackal howled in the wastes.

There was a faint creak of sinew. One of the wights stirred slightly, its skull turning to the northwest. Arkhan was alert in an instant. With a thought, he focused on the wight and saw through its eyes.

For several moments, there was nothing to see. Arkhan grew puzzled, unsure what the wight thought it had seen. But just as he was about to draw back, the shadows along the hilltop seemed to ripple.

Arkhan hissed a furious curse, his bony hand reaching for the iron sword at his hip as the first arrows went flitting past.

The enemy broke from the hillside shadows with the first volley: a score of skeletal horse archers, garbed in the black leather armour of Nagashizzar. The revenants fired as they rode, sending a steady rain of black shafts sleeting through the circle of dark riders.

Snarling, Arkhan wheeled his horse about. An arrow thudded into the saddle, just behind his hip, while another blurred past less than a finger length from his eyes. He felt one of his wights take an arrow through the arm; another was struck in the side. The liche flung out his hand and sent a volley of his own howling through the oncoming horsemen. Three of the horse archers were torn apart by a stream of fiery darts, sending glowing fragments of bone tumbling over the ground.

More arrows snapped through the air in reply, but by then the dark riders were on the move, galloping upslope into the hills to the northeast. Arkhan fought to contain his fury. The horse archers were skirmishers, likely covering the flank of a larger force – the detachment from Numas, or possibly Zandri – just beyond the hills to the north. And now their master knew exactly where he was.

Arkhan crested the hill just ahead of his bodyguards. On the far side, the hill descended into a winding gully, thick with shadow. Already, the liche could hear faint sounds of pursuit echoing from beyond the hills to the northwest, as more skeletal horsemen joined in the hunt. With the river to his right, the only direction he could go was north and east, which made the enemy’s task that much easier. But the skeletons were not infallible; if he moved fast and used the gullies to his advantage, there was still a chance of escape.

Once again, the liche began to chant. The aether was still suffused with necromantic power in the wake of Nagash’s ritual, but the torrent of energy was difficult to control. The invocation was not as well contained as before, sending waves of agony coursing through his skeletal frame, but it was enough. The dark riders’ undead steeds raced ahead, coursing like quicksilver down the narrow path. The pursuing riders vanished from sight.

Arkhan sustained the incantation as long as he dared, until it felt as though his bones would splinter from the strain. The riders wound about the feet of the low hills, working their way alternately north and east in hopes of throwing the enemy off their trail and forcing them to abandon their pursuit.

But the dark riders’ respite was short-lived. Soon the hills echoed with the clatter of hooves as more and more enemy cavalry units joined in the hunt. Arkhan listened to the sounds of pursuit and tried to puzzle out their relative positions. As far as he could tell, the hunters were spread out in a rough semicircle some two miles across and perhaps a mile or so behind him. All it would take would be for one enemy rider to spot them, and the semicircle would start to close around them like a pair of jaws. They had to stay ahead of the cordon and keep to cover, or all was lost.

For two more miles, their luck held. Arkhan followed one narrow hill-path after another – until, without warning, the riders emerged from a steep-sided gully into a wide, sloping plain several miles across. The north edge of the plain was bounded by a tall, rocky hill, while to the south the liche saw only broken, treacherous ground that sloped steeply back towards the river. Off to the east, perhaps two miles distant, the hills crowded in again, forming a valley that rose up and out of sight.

Arkhan snarled a curse. Two miles, and no cover – a bad proposition, to be sure, but there wasn’t a better one to be had. Hissing between his teeth, he led his wights onto the plain and then began to chant.

Almost at once he found himself struggling with the incantation. The energies of the spell twisted in his grasp like an adder, threatening to destroy him, but he would not relent. Heat began to build along his bones like irons held in a fire, but, step by step, the horses began to pick up speed. Within moments, the riders were flying across the plain.

The valley drew nearer. Arkhan’s bones sizzled. Wisps of foul-smelling smoke seeped from the seams in his armour. The agony was terrible, but he would not relent. Each second carried them further to their goal.

They were only a few hundred yards from the mouth of the valley when the enemy found them. There were no shouts of triumph, or braying of horns; simply a swelling rumble of hooves behind the dark riders as more and more of the pursuing cavalry poured eagerly onto the plain.

Arkhan could feel his concentration slipping. More and more power was leaking past the edges of the spell and scorching his body and soul. It felt as though his bones might fly apart at any moment. He held the incantation together for two seconds more, then relinquished his grip. The change in speed was sudden and dramatic, but just a moment later the dark riders entered the mouth of the valley and once more vanished from sight.

Once inside, Arkhan saw that the valley curved slightly northward and appeared to narrow at its far end. Past that, they would have more options, more opportunities to throw the enemy off their trail. Or so the liche chose to believe.

The undead horses lunged up the slope, their hooves kicking up thick plumes of sand and dust. Arkhan knew that the enemy would be pushing their own mounts for all they were worth, trying to catch sight of him again. It would all come down to a matter of seconds, he thought. Part of him was tempted to try the incantation again, but he knew that he’d already pushed his luck too far. Another attempt could well destroy him. Yet would that be any worse than what would happen if the enemy caught him?

Arkhan weighed the risks. It proved to be his undoing.

He did not see the enemy soldiers until it was far too late. Ranks of spearmen waited at the valley’s narrow end, closing it off completely. Their shields and their tattered rags were covered in layers of thick dust, and their statue-like stillness rendered them nearly invisible in the gloom. Stunned, Arkhan reined in just a hundred yards short of the enemy battle-line.

More dust and sand exploded around the dark riders. Undead skirmishers clattered to their feet all around Arkhan, brandishing barbed javelins and tarnished khopeshes.

Arkhan’s wights circled protectively around their master. Dark swords, glimmering with fell magics, hissed from their sheaths. The liche glanced back the way he’d come, only to see the first of the pursuing cavalry galloping into view.

There was nowhere to run. Though Arkhan still clutched his battered, iron blade, he had little desire to use it. The thought of a glorious, last stand quickly lost its savour when one knew exactly what awaited them in the realms of the dead.

A change of tactics was in order. With an angry hiss, the liche put away his sword. He nudged his horse forward, out of the protective ring of his bodyguards, and took a few steps towards the nearest skirmisher. Arkhan leaned down, peering into the pinpoints of light that served as the skeleton’s eyes.

‘Send me someone with a working set of lungs,’ he said, speaking to the liche that lay behind the skirmisher’s glowing stare. ‘I have a proposition to discuss.’

Arkhan saw almost at once that the situation was not quite as grim as it appeared. The pursuing horsemen had filled the western end of the valley, but had come to an abrupt stop well outside bowshot from the battle-line of camouflaged spearmen. At once, the liche realized that he hadn’t stumbled into the middle of one army, but two. The spearmen to the east were likely part of the force he’d sent to Numas, while the horsemen to the west had originally been sent to Zandri.

It also suggested that the ambush he’d stumbled into might not have been meant for him at all. That was good, Arkhan thought. It gave him more leverage. He sent one of his wights back down the valley to call for a representative from the milling horsemen.

The two mouthpieces arrived within minutes of one another. From the east came a heavy cavalryman on a snarling, black cadaver of a horse, while from the west rode a horse archer with skin like saddle leather and a few wisps of black hair floating about his rotted pate. Arkhan left his wights behind and walked his horse down the valley to a point about mid-way between the two forces.

‘Lord Khamenes,’ Arkhan said, greeting the heavy cavalryman – or rather, the liche who controlled him. ‘And Lord Shiwat,’ he said to the horse archer. ‘We find ourselves in interesting times.’

The heavy cavalryman tilted his helmeted head quizzically. Leathery flesh creaked as the man’s mouth struggled to form words. ‘You… have… no… army,’ Lord Khamenes said. Whether it was an observation or an opening gambit to the negotiations, Arkhan could not tell.

‘We were beset on all sides when the ritual failed,’ Arkhan replied. ‘The risen dead turned on us, and upon one another. No doubt the same happened at Numas.’

The cavalryman made a growling sound that might have been a sneer. ‘Yes. But we… fought… them off. You… did not.’

Now it was Arkhan’s turn to sneer. ‘You were born in Khemri. You recall all the great kings of legend, going back to Settra himself?’ The liche pointed to the south. ‘They’re still fighting each other, out on the trade road. All of them, plus scores of petty rulers you’ve never heard of. And I was in the middle of it.’

‘I scarcely fought at all,’ said Lord Shiwat. The withered horse archer glanced from Arkhan to the heavy cavalryman and back again. ‘Zandri was empty when I arrived. The survivors of the plague had taken to the sea. So I left.’

Arkhan eyed the horse archer. Was Lord Shiwat subtly suggesting that he now possessed the larger army? It was possible, Arkhan thought, but unlikely. Shiwat had never been known for subtlety – or for much of anything else, for that matter. When Nagash had needed new generals in the wake of his failed invasion, he had tried to summon his immortals – men like Arkhan, from the old days at Khemri – back from the realms of the dead. But most of those dread warriors no longer had a body to return to. Their flesh and bones had been burned to ash by the vengeful priest kings at the end of the war. Only a handful of immortals had escaped total destruction and were able to rise again: most were lesser souls like Shiwat and Khamenes, who were too obscure and unimportant in those days to catch the priest kings’ attention.

And then there was Raamket, the Red Lord, and his companion Aten-heru. They had been among the wickedest and most powerful of Nagash’s lieutenants, and when they had fallen, some ninety years after Nagash’s defeat at Mahrak, their bodies had been preserved as trophies rather than burned. Arkhan had sent Raamket with the detachment to Ka-Sabar, and Aten-heru with the force headed to Rasetra. He would have given much to know where they were now.

‘Why are you here?’ Khamenes asked Arkhan. ‘The wasteland is no place for a small group of riders.’

‘No worse than Quatar and the Gates of the Dawn,’ Arkhan replied. ‘The dead there remember me well. It’s possible I could have slipped past them in time, but ironically, that is the one thing I can ill afford right now. Nagash is no more, and all his secrets are free for the taking.’

‘The Undying King has fallen?’ Khamenes said.

‘Do not dissemble,’ Arkhan snarled. ‘You know it, as well as I. Even Shiwat felt it, clear on the far side of Nehekara. Something happened. I don’t know what. But Nagash is gone.’

‘Then how is it we are still here?’ Shiwat asked.

Arkhan turned to the horse archer. ‘A good question,’ he said, trying to conceal the surprise from his voice. ‘I do not know for sure. Perhaps the power of the great ritual was enough to give our forms permanence. Nagash may have planned it that way all along.’ Privately though, Arkhan doubted it. He couldn’t imagine Nagash giving up that kind of power over one of his subordinates. More than likely, the effect had been unintentional.

‘And the others?’ Khamenes said.

Arkhan shrugged. ‘Those that died during the plague did not last once the ritual ended. The magic binding their souls was all that kept them in the land of the living. But the older ones – those interred with all the preparations and rituals of the Mortuary Cult – they were more resilient. They provided a strong vessel to house a resurrected soul. It’s possible that they might endure forever.’

‘With no one to control them,’ Shiwat observed.

Khamenes glared at Arkhan. ‘Which is why you are so desperate to reach Nagashizzar.’

‘Of course,’ Arkhan replied. ‘Nagash’s secrets are there for the taking. I expect that Raamket and the other eastern lieutenants are hastening there even now.’

‘But you want the throne for yourself,’ Khamenes hissed.

Arkhan glared back at the cavalryman. ‘I have no intention of serving Raamket or anyone else, in this life or the next.’

The heavy horseman nodded slowly. ‘Nor I,’ Khamenes agreed. ‘Which presents us with a problem.’

Shiwat’s man edged his horse closer, until he sat almost between Arkhan and Khamenes. ‘You said something about a proposition.’

Arkhan bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘As I said before, Raamket and the warriors I left in the east are rushing to claim Nagashizzar even now. I would bet my soul on it. And even if I get to Nagashizzar ahead of him, I can’t hold him off with just a handful of wights.’

‘So you need me to deal with Raamket,’ Khamenes interjected.

‘You? You think you can defeat the Red Lord alone?’ Arkhan’s laugh echoed up and down the valley. ‘No. It would take both your armies, plus the walls of Nagashizzar, to hold Raamket at bay.’

The heavy cavalryman’s lips curled back in contempt, but Khamenes did not try to argue the point. ‘And what would we gain from such an alliance?’

Arkhan spread his arms. ‘Power. What else? I know where Nagash kept his secret tomes in Nagashizzar. I know how to get past all the traps he laid to destroy would-be thieves. Most of all, I know how to interpret his notes and perform the great rituals.’

The horse archer leaned towards Arkhan. Shiwat’s greed gleamed in the corpse’s beady eyes. ‘You will share them with us?’

‘Better that than bend the knee to Raamket. Do you not agree?’

Neither of the corpses spoke for a moment. Arkhan could only wait and see if they would take the bait. Khamenes was the dangerous one. His intelligence did not match his ambition. If he decided that he could deal with Raamket himself…

Shiwat spoke first. ‘How would the power be shared between us?’

Arkhan spread his hands. ‘Perhaps we can discuss it on the march. Every moment we wait, Raamket draws closer to the prize.’ He looked to Khamenes for agreement.

The heavy cavalryman sat stiffly in his weathered saddle, shrivelled lips drawn tight. His green eyes blazed with irritation, but there was a degree of calculation there as well. ‘Agreed,’ Khamenes barked. The corpse turned his horse about. ‘Bring up your warriors, Shiwat. You will cover my right flank as we advance. Any warrior that cannot keep up will be left behind.’

Arkhan hissed in satisfaction. His chances of reaching the great mountain had risen considerably. ‘Shall I ride with you, Khamenes?’ he asked.

‘Go wherever you like,’ Khamenes snarled. ‘So long as you stay out of my way.’

Khamenes set a brutal pace through the wastelands north of the dead river, driving his warriors through the treacherous ground with ruthlessness and an impressive degree of sorcery. Shiwat struggled to keep up. From time to time, Arkhan wondered if Khamenes was doing it to try and provoke Shiwat into overextending his necromantic powers, as he had very nearly done in the chase up the valley. If Shiwat managed to immolate himself, Khamenes could then try to seize Shiwat’s forces for himself, and have one less rival to share the throne with.

Arkhan took Khamenes at his word and kept out of the liche’s way. The air was thick with treachery. He had no doubt at all that his erstwhile allies would turn on him the instant they had access to Nagash’s tomes. Even Shiwat, dull as he was, was no doubt hatching schemes of his own. During the journey, he did what he could to play the two liches against one another. With careful planning and a little luck, they would turn on each other first, giving him enough advance warning to deal with whoever survived. Khamenes was more clever and a more potent necromancer, but Shiwat’s army was larger. No doubt Khamenes hoped the brutal march to Nagashizzar would at least even the scales somewhat.

The armies never stopped marching. Day and night, they worked their way through the wasteland, following routes scouted out by Shiwat’s horse archers. Warriors and horsemen were lost along the way, their bodies wrecked by falls, or pulled down in the dark by packs of hungry jackals, or blown away by sudden, savage windstorms that swept the wastes from the west. The losses were small but steady, slowly bleeding away the strength of both armies, until Arkhan worried that they might not be able to face a real threat once they reached the great mountain.

Khamenes accepted the cost without hesitation, and left Shiwat with no choice but to do so as well. The march was brutal, but effective. Two months after forming their unsteady alliance, Shiwat’s scouts reached the marshlands west of the Sour Sea. Once again, Khamenes drove his army into the marshes without a second thought, but the murky terrain and the twisted denizens of the swamp threatened to swallow his troops whole. After two days, the liche was forced to pull his army out of the marshland and follow Shiwat and Arkhan around its perimeter.

After a week, the armies left the marshlands behind and entered the hilly country of the flesh-eaters. The ghouls, driven almost to extinction during the war against the rat-men, howled hungrily from their nests as the armies went by.

With every passing day, Nagashizzar grew larger and more ominous on the eastern horizon. Arkhan studied the grave-lights glimmering from dozens of fortress towers and wondered what he would find inside.

The armies crossed the northern edge of the Sour Sea, and were only a few miles from the great road that led to Nagashizzar’s main gate, when Shiwat’s forces lurched to a sudden halt. Arkhan gathered his wights about him and pushed through the packed ranks of skeletons, seeking the liche and his retinue.

Shiwat was far forward along the line of march, along with the rest of his cavalry. The liche was clad in heavy scaled armour much like the harness that Arkhan wore, and carried a wicked-looking bronze khopesh at his hip. Half a dozen heavy horsemen formed a protective cordon around their master, where he sat upon the summit of a low hill.

Arkhan edged up the hill to join him. From their vantage point, he could see the northern road that climbed the hills in the direction of the Plain of Grass, and trace its route southwards up to the towering arch of Nagashizzar’s main gate. Astonishingly, the huge portal lay open, as though inviting the armies inside.

The bulk of Khamenes’s forces were more than a mile to the west, jammed up along the narrow paths that wound through the hill country. Shiwat was blind to the opportunity before him. He could have easily used his spearmen to block Khamenes in the hills and raced into Nagashizzar alone. Instead, his gaze was turned southward, studying the misty surface of the Sour Sea.

‘What is going on?’ Arkhan asked, drawing up beside Shiwat. In reply, the liche pointed a bony finger to the south.

Arkhan bit back his irritation and studied the sea’s surface. For a few moments, all he could make out was shifting currents of mist. Finally, off to the southeast, he caught sight of something low and broad amid the layers of vapour. Then he saw the brief flash of oars, and understood what he was looking at: a troop ship, one of the wide-bellied troop barges Arkhan had used to sail his army to Lahmia months ago. And it wasn’t alone.

There was a disturbance at the foot of the hill. Khamenes had arrived, with a squadron of heavy cavalry at his heels. The liche forced his way past Shiwat’s bodyguards and lurched up the slope, his eyes blazing. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he snarled.

‘It’s Raamket,’ Arkhan declared. ‘He’s landing his troops on the eastern shore.’

‘What should we do?’ Shiwat asked.

Arkhan studied the shoreline where Raamket had already beached a handful of troopships. The Red Lord was hurriedly forming up a large force of fast-moving cavalry, which could make good time crossing the slopes beneath the fortress walls. Fortunately, it appeared that only Nagashizzar’s main gate was open, so the race was still anyone’s to win. The liche gauged distances and weighed the odds. He likely wouldn’t get a better opportunity than this.

‘We must hurry,’ he said. ‘Gather your horsemen. While Shiwat’s infantry moves to block Raamket’s advance, we seize the gate. Quickly!’

Without waiting for a reply, Arkhan spurred his horse and charged down the far slope of the hill. His wights swept Shiwat’s warriors aside as they raced for the northern road. Seconds later, Shiwat and Khamenes were in hot pursuit, just as Arkhan hoped.

It was the work of only a few minutes to break free from the packed ranks of Shiwat’s army. Arkhan drove his horse onward, gaining speed as he raced for the dark ribbon of the roadway. Cavalrymen closed in on him from all sides – Shiwat’s horse archers, plus a leavening of heavy cavalry that had formed part of the army’s vanguard. They closed in around him like a fist, gradually slowing him down until Shiwat could catch up. The liche was not quite as dense as he appeared.

They reached the north road and turned southeast, hooves clattering on the crushed stone surface. Horns wailed in the distance. Raamket had caught sight of his rivals. Shiwat’s infantry was already quick-marching down from the hills and spreading out to form a battle-line facing the Red Lord’s approaching cavalry. The enemy horsemen might break through the hasty defensive line, but by then it would be too late.

Arkhan and his erstwhile allies charged down the north road, passing the ancient, slumped ruins of the old Yaghur temple fortress. The towering gate of the fortress loomed above them. Grave-lights shone balefully from the ominous bulk of the outer barbican, like the hungry eyes of a leviathan. The open gateway beckoned, only a couple of miles ahead. It was an impossible stroke of luck. Arkhan had never known the gates of Nagashizzar to be left open. He had originally planned to distract Shiwat and Khamenes with efforts to scale the fortress walls, while he slipped away and entered Nagashizzar using more secret means.

Now he would wait until they were inside the fortress walls. Once past the barbican, he would utter the incantation to seal the main gate, separating his rivals from the bulk of their warriors. He would slay Khamenes first, then turn his attentions to Shiwat. And then, if he had enough strength left, he would seize control of their armies and turn them on Raamket.

The first of Shiwat’s cavalry reached the gate and disappeared into the darkness beyond. The outer wall – the first of seven curtain walls that climbed the slopes of the fortress – was more than sixty feet thick at the base, and was traversed by a high, arched tunnel that led to an inner gate. In the past, the tunnel had been lit by grave-lamps, which burned coldly from metal sconces set high in the tunnel walls. Those had gone dark, somehow, and the tunnel was as lightless as a tomb.

Arkhan and his wights raced past the gate moments later. The air within was cold and dank, and reeked with fumes from the mountain’s many idle forges. The darkness within was oppressive. There wasn’t even a faint glow of grave-light at the far end of the tunnel from the inner courtyard.

The liche felt a chill settle into his bones. He couldn’t see the lights of the inner courtyard. That was impossible. Unless…

Arkhan reined in his horse with such violence that the undead mount skidded ten feet along the paving stones. By the time his wights had clattered to a stop, he had already turned about and was racing back the other way as fast as the undead beast could carry him. Khamenes and Shiwat flashed by, shouting in alarm.

He couldn’t see the inner courtyard because the inner gate was shut. They’d ridden headlong into a trap.

Sorcery stirred the aether. There was an earth-shaking groan and the gates of Nagashizzar began to close. Arrows hissed through the darkness. One thudded into his horse’s backside, sinking deeply enough for the arrowhead to grate against bone. Arkhan shouted an incantation of his own, trying to speed his mount further, only to find the spell expertly countered by some unseen foe.

The fortress gates were closing, but their great bulk did not move easily. Had he been another ten yards further down the tunnel, he would not have made it in time. As it was, the sides of the gates were almost close enough to touch as Arkhan raced by. Khamenes and Shiwat appeared moments later, driving their mounts with all the will they possessed.

Many of Shiwat’s horsemen were not so lucky. Two were caught between the swinging gates and crushed to powder. The rest were trapped in the tunnel, at the mercy of the hidden archers.

Outside, the walls of Nagashizzar had come alive, raining destruction on the armies at their feet. Arrows, javelins and sling stones rained down on Shiwat’s infantry and Raamket’s horsemen alike. As Arkhan emerged onto the battlefield, there was a rumble from the barbican as a handful of catapults went into action. Smooth stones the size of chariots arced overhead, plunging down onto Shiwat’s battle-line and wreaking havoc on the tightly packed companies. The liche responded with a blast of sorcery, raking the battlements with a storm of greenish lightning, to no apparent effect.

Arkhan kept going, ignoring the chaos of battle to his left. He raced for the ruins of the temple fortress, gauging them to be outside the range of Nagashizzar’s defences. Within moments, the retreating horsemen drew the attention of the defenders on the walls. The rain of arrows picked off a dozen of Khamenes’s trailing horsemen before the rest were out of reach.

Khamenes and Shiwat reined in around Arkhan, who had taken shelter beneath the temple fortress’s gate arch.

‘You lied!’ Khamenes roared. ‘You said Nagash was gone! Now he thinks we have rebelled against him!’

Arkhan’s mind raced. The brush with destruction had left him rattled. Out on the slopes, Raamket’s horsemen were in swift retreat, racing for cover from the endless volleys of arrows. Shiwat’s infantry were pulling back as well, though more than a third of them had already been destroyed.

‘Nagash is gone, you idiot,’ Arkhan snapped. ‘We would never have made it this far otherwise.’

‘Then how else do you explain this?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Arkhan said. ‘Someone has reached the fortress ahead of us.’ He glared up at the mountain. Who could it have been? Aten-heru? Bhashan? It didn’t seem likely. Bhashan wasn’t much brighter than Shiwat, and Aten-heru didn’t make a move without Raamket’s blessing. Who did that leave?

Whoever it was, he had control of Nagashizzar, and worse, Nagash’s hoarded knowledge. The fact that he was using arrows instead of enslaving them outright suggested that he didn’t have access to the higher rituals yet – but that was only a matter of time.

Shiwat completed the withdrawal of his surviving troops. The slope near the gatehouse was covered in smashed skeletons and scattered bones. The liche turned to Arkhan. ‘What now?’

Arkhan bit back a curse. Things had just gotten a great deal more complicated.

‘Now we talk to Raamket.’

The Red Lord came to the parley in person, just as Arkhan expected he would. Aten-heru stood at his side, along with a modest bodyguard of a dozen heavily armed wights – and a pair of spokesmen. The pitch that had been used to preserve the bodies of both liches, hundreds of years ago, had ruined their lungs and vocal chords.

They stood a few hundred yards from the ruins of the temple fortress, just within the shadow of the main gate, yet beyond the reach of the wall’s catapults. Raamket and Aten-heru had run a gauntlet of missile fire to reach the parley site, and had lost a number of warriors along the way.

One of the spokesmen dismounted clumsily from his horse and sank to his knees in front of Raamket. At the time of his death he had been a boy of twelve or thirteen, slightly built, with high cheekbones and curly black hair. Much of his skin from the neck down was missing. It had likely gone to help make Raamket’s new cloak, Arkhan mused.

Arkhan stood a few feet away, flanked by spokesmen for Shiwat and Khamenes, who hid themselves in the ruins at his back.

The boy’s face twisted in a long, grotesque grin. ‘I’m not here to negotiate,’ Raamket said. ‘You can either surrender your forces to me, or I’ll kill you and take them anyway.’

Arkhan gave the Red Lord a death’s-head grin. ‘You can’t win, Raamket. Fight us, and even if you win, I guarantee there won’t be enough left of your army to conquer Nagashizzar. Unless you’d rather settle this with a duel? If so, I would be happy to oblige you.’

Raamket bristled. His lips drew back in a snarl, revealing teeth that had been filed to points and were now stained a dull grey. The pitch had dyed his skin black, but otherwise had left his features reasonably well preserved. His large hands clenched in anger, but he refused to rise to the bait.

‘What do you want?’ the boy’s corpse said.

Arkhan glanced from one liche to the other. ‘First, where is Bhashan and his army? Did you leave him in Nehekara?’

The boy gave a ghastly chuckle. ‘Bhashan is still in Nehekara, yes. Or what’s left of him, at least. His army now belongs to me.’

Arkhan’s gaze turned to the distant fortress. Bhashant had been sent to wipe out Lybaras, which would have left him closer to Nagashizzar than even Raamket or Aten-heru. If not him, then who was lurking behind those walls?

‘Be that as it may, you still do not have enough forces to breach those walls, Raamket. You need all the help you can get.’

The Red Lord was unimpressed. ‘If I need more troops, I will make them.’

Arkhan shook his head. ‘Time is not on our side, Raamket. Whoever is in control of the fortress is plumbing Nagash’s secrets even now. Before long, he will have the power to enslave us. No, the sooner we capture those tomes, the better off we will be.’

Aten-heru leaned forward. In life he had been a lean man with the face of a jackal; the dried pitch had drawn back his lips into a permanent, predatory sneer. His spokesman, a short, broad-shouldered Rasetran, croaked, ‘And once we have the tomes, what then? We each take a share?’

‘Exactly,’ Arkhan replied. ‘Nagash is gone. We are the Lords of the Dead now. Let us divide the world between us, just as the priest-kings did for centuries in Nehekara.’

It did not take long for Raamket to reach a decision. His faults were many, but indecisiveness was not one of them. ‘Very well. How do you propose we take the fortress?’

‘First, we probe the enemy along a wide front. We gauge his numbers and strength. We will focus our attacks at the main gate and along several hundred yards of wall to either side. You take your forces and attack along the wall closer to your landing site. There are three lesser gates along that length where you can put pressure on the enemy’s defences. We identify weak spots along the line, and then we attack.’

Raamket turned in the saddle and surveyed the imposing fortress. After a moment, the Red Lord glanced at Aten-heru, who gave a reluctant nod.

‘Very well,’ the boy said. ‘It will take six hours to disembark the rest of my troops. After that, the attack begins.’

Arkhan watched as the spokesmen mounted up, and the Red Lord braved the gauntlet of arrows once more. As the riders dwindled in the distance, Shiwat’s mouthpiece turned to him.

‘Raamket will betray us the first chance he gets,’ he said.

Arkhan chuckled. ‘I never expected otherwise. But he doesn’t know the fortress like I do. Those gates nearest his landing site aren’t real. They’re decoys, meant to tempt an invader to try and outflank the main gate. He will lose thousands of troops trying to take them, while we cross the wall farther north, on the other side of the main gate, and fight our way into the fortress.’

Shiwat seemed convinced, but not Khamenes. The heavy cavalryman eyed Arkhan warily. ‘And then we divide Nagash’s tomes amongst ourselves.’

Arkhan gave the corpse a black-toothed smile. ‘You have my word upon it.’

The assault on the fortress ebbed and flowed like the tides. One wave after another crashed against the walls, raising ladders made of scavenged bones and surging upwards to try and seize sections of the outer wall. The undead fell in droves, struck down by the steady rain of spears and arrows, or smashed to bits by bouncing catapult stones. Ladders were pushed away from the walls by metal-tipped poles, hurling scores of attackers to the rocky ground, only to see them raised by the same bony hands a few moments later. The assault would continue until most of its strength had been spent, and then the survivors would withdraw to make way for a fresh wave to resume the attack. It was a tactic that Nagash and his lieutenants had perfected over the centuries, whereby even a superior enemy force could be ground to dust by sheer, unrelenting pressure.

The battle for Nagashizzar had been raging for hours, and the defenders showed no signs of breaking. The fortress walls and an inexhaustible supply of missiles had managed to keep the attackers at bay and inflict a tremendous amount of casualties. Losses had grown so great that Shiwat and Aten-heru were now fully occupied with raising up new skeletons to keep the battle going. The carnage had in fact grown so great that hungry packs of flesh-eaters had begun slinking about the edges of the battlefield, sniffing for marrow and tendon to fill their aching bellies.

There were signs that the pressure was starting to take its toll. Raamket’s forces had spread further along the wall than Arkhan had hoped, striking not just at the false gates but at empty stretches of wall as well. They had reached the top of the wall almost a dozen times in the past few hours, and the defenders were finding it harder and harder to drive them back again. At the same time, fighting around the main gate had been exceptionally fierce, but the strength of the enemy’s counterattacks had begun to wane. An hour before, a suicide raid by a company of Kahmenes’s spearmen had managed to force their way atop the barbican and set fire to several of the catapults. The wind off the Sour Sea continued to fan the flames, wreathing the gatehouse in thick clouds of grey smoke.

Arkhan stood atop a ruined length of wall at the temple fortress, far to the rear of the assault. Without troops to command, he had relegated himself to countering the enemy’s spells, a role that Khamenes and the others were all too pleased to relegate to him. They were as close to the front lines as they dared, waiting for the moment their warriors would carry the walls and the race for the prize began.

What the fools didn’t realize was that the role Arkhan had chosen placed him in a perfect position to read the tides of battle and pinpoint the location of his foe. The enemy necromancer had cast a flurry of deadly spells during the early hours of the assault, striking from the top of a high tower that Nagash himself had once used in the war against the rat-men. Arkhan had countered most of those spells with ease; in general it was far easier to negate an incantation than to perform one. Over the course of the next six hours the necromantic duel continued, and Arkhan had learned quite a bit about his foe: a powerful and skilled necromancer, but lacking Arkhan’s degree of experience. His incantations were complex designs, rather than the simple, brutally effective ones that worked best on the battlefield, which made them all the easier to negate.

Over time, the barrage of deadly spells began to abate. The enemy devoted more and more energy into incantations that were meant to replenish his mounting losses. Arkhan interfered with most of those as well, letting only as many succeed as he thought would keep the battle going. Even those had dwindled to a trickle now, and the source had shifted, relocating from the tower to a chamber deep within the mountain.

The battle was entering its final phase. Now was the time to put his plan into motion.

Out on the slopes, Khamenes was ordering another wave of spearmen to attack the walls close to the barbican. To the south, Raamket had dismantled several of his transport ships and used the parts to construct a trio of ponderous siege towers, which were slowly approaching the outer wall. The liches sensed that the tide had turned in their favour. They would be waiting to pounce at the first sign of a breach.

Arkhan made his way down from the ruined wall. His horse waited at the bottom, surrounded by his ever-vigilant wights. The liche climbed into the saddle and led his riders away from the battle, back into the hills to the northwest. Not even the flesh-eaters took notice of their passing.

Arkhan had not fought in the war against the rat-men, but he knew its history well. For years he had collected tribute from the repulsive creatures in the sullen peace that had followed, and supplied them with the discs of abn-i-khat that had turned the River Vitae to poison.

During that time, he had learned a great deal about their underground network. Including the ones they’d used to stage raids on the flesh-eaters at the height of the fighting.

Shiwat and Khamenes had marched past a half-dozen entrances to the great mountain and never known it. There was an old, abandoned flesh-eater nest not more than a mile from the ruins of the temple fortress. Around its base, Arkhan quickly found a trio of muddy holes that might have looked like sinkholes to an untrained eye. Two of the tunnels had collapsed over the years, but the third one descended to a rocky side-tunnel fifteen feet below the marshy ground.

The liche got his bearings quickly and set off with his bodyguards through the darkness, moving as swiftly as he dared. Even with his knowledge of the labyrinthine tunnels, it would take hours to reach his goal. After all his efforts to undermine the fortress’s defence, he now found himself hoping that the defenders managed to hold out just a little while longer.

From the mouth of the tunnel, it was three miles to the lower levels of the mountain’s mine works. Veins of abn-i-khat glowed poisonously from the walls of the mineshafts, illuminating the toppled forms of hundreds of skeletal miners. The workers had collapsed all at once when their master had been destroyed.

Once inside the mine works, Arkhan made his way back towards the surface. He passed through dark, deserted halls and echoing vaults; past storehouses stocked with armour, weapons and ammunition enough for a hundred wars and shuttered laboratories that had once witnessed all manner of blasphemous experiments. He moved like a ghost through the vast mountain crypt, drawing ever nearer to his prey.

The antechamber to the great throne room was empty. Arkhan suspected that every available warrior had been sent to the outer wall. The liche drew his sword. At his unspoken command, his wights formed a wedge behind him. Fell blades shone balefully in the darkness.

Arkhan raised his left hand and uttered a simple incantation, and the doors to the throne room groaned inward. Grave light gleamed coldly in the chamber beyond. The air stank of old blood and putrefying flesh.

The corpses of a dozen barbarians lay sprawled on the marble floor, their throats expertly slit open and their faces frozen in masks of terror and pain. They surrounded a large, complicated ritual circle, its precise lines drawn with a mix of chalk and abn-i-khat dust. Five gaunt, pale figures in filthy brown robes stood at cardinal points around the circle. Once they had been men of the northern barbarian tribes, but now they were monsters. Rotting blood painted their cheeks and blackened their bony chins. At the sight of Arkhan they raised clawed hands and hissed like vipers, exposing vicious, needle-like fangs.

At the far end of the chamber, seated upon the throne of the Undying King, was the blood-drinker W’soran. The necromancer looked even more corpse-like since he’d fled the battle at the Gates of the Dawn, some fifteen years ago. His skin, once grey and thin as parchment, had now turned nearly black, like a mummy that had lain for centuries in a desert tomb. Thin, cracked lips were drawn back in a permanent snarl, and his teeth were nearly as black and jagged as Arkhan’s. His right eye, which had been put out by an arrow during the battle, had grown back as a milky-white orb without iris or pupil. His left eye was black as a chip of polished obsidian, and burned with a cold, all-consuming hate.

To the left of the throne sat a trio of tall, rounded jars, of a type that Arkhan knew all too well. Spread about W’soran’s feet and spilling down the steps of the dais were ancient, leather-bound tomes, many open to diagrams of ritual circles, or detailed notes written in a careful, precise hand: the tomes of Nagash, the Undying King.

Arkhan stalked into the vast room like a desert cat, his sword held low at his side. His wights spread out around him, pacing their master step for step.

‘How stupid I was,’ the liche said. ‘Of course it would be you. How long did you cower in the north, waiting for your chance to slink back into Nagashizzar? You pathetic bag of bones! You’re worse than the rat-men!’

W’soran rose from Nagash’s scarred throne. ‘Bold talk from a traitor,’ the blood-drinker sneered. ‘I mean to continue the Undying King’s plan, while you and your ilk circle the mountain like jackals, come to pick at his bones!’ He extended a skeletal finger at the liche. ‘I am your lord and master now!’ he shrieked. ‘Bow to me, or suffer my wrath!’

Arkhan threw back his head and laughed. The dreadful, joyous sound echoed in the vast hall.

‘This is a gift from the forsaken gods,’ he exulted. ‘How I have longed to send your soul screaming into the Abyss! Come to me, you misbegotten worm. Come and face your doom.’

W’soran shrieked an incantation in reply, and green lightning leapt across the room. Arkhan dispelled it with a few snarled words and rushed towards the throne.

As one, the blood-drinker’s servants leapt to defend their master. Arkhan tore one part with a bolt of sorcerous fire, and then the rest were upon him. The creatures looked frail, but they shared W’soran’s blood, and were swift as snakes. Claws raked at his arms and chest, ripping through scale mail and leather with ease. The liche struck back with his sword, but his target dodged nimbly aside. A moment later the wights joined the fight, lashing at the blood-drinkers with their rune-etched blades.

Arkhan stabbed at another of W’soran’s blood-drinkers, ripping a deep wound in its side. The creature howled in pain, recoiling from the blow, and the liche lunged past, searching for W’soran.

There was a flash of sickly green light and a clap of thunder. Arkhan was blown from his feet. Heat scorched his bones and consumed him with pain. W’soran’s bolt hurled him backwards into a blood-drinker and a pair of his wights, sending them all crashing to the floor.

A mortal might have died at once from the sheer agony of the blow, but Arkhan had suffered worse in his time. Snarling, he struggled upright. The blood-drinker he’d knocked down reached for his throat. With a curse, he buried his blade in the side of its skull and levered himself to his feet.

Another bolt of power sizzled through the air. This time, however, Arkhan was ready. He turned the deadly spell aside and responded with his own, raking W’soran and the throne with a torrent of burning darts. W’soran tried to deflect the attack, but hours of constant spellcasting had left him weak. Several of the darts punched through his chest and buried themselves in the back of Nagash’s throne. W’soran screamed, clutching at the smoking wounds, but did not fall.

Bones clattered across the marble floor as one of Arkhan’s wights was torn apart. Another fell victim to a bolt of magical fire. Three of W’soran’s servants still survived, but they all bore ghastly wounds from the wights’ fell blades. Arkhan ignored the blood-drinker’s servants. Instead, he snarled an invocation and leapt through the air like a loosed arrow, plunging down upon the dais with his sword held high.

Arkhan crossed the intervening space in the blink of an eye, but W’soran was still faster. With an angry cry, he dodged to one side and Arkhan’s blade buried itself deep in the back of Nagash’s battered throne. W’soran responded with outstretched hands and a ball of magical fire that the liche only barely dispelled, leaving his scale armour shimmering with spent heat. The concussive force of the blast sent Nagash’s heavy tomes flying off the dais and skidding across the polished floor.

With a roar of fury, Arkhan gripped his sword with both hands and heaved with all of his supernatural might. The sword was buried deep and refused to come free, so he picked the chair up by the blade and smashed it down onto W’soran. The blood-drinker barely had enough time to get his arms up in front of his face before the chair struck. The throne flew apart with a rending crash and flung W’soran from the dais.

Grinning like a daemon, Arkhan leapt after W’soran, but the blood-drinker scuttled away from him like a grotesque spider. The liche sent a storm of magical bolts chasing after him, leaving a trail of tiny craters along the polished marble floor.

Arkhan uttered a malicious laugh. ‘Your power is ebbing, W’soran,’ he hissed. ‘I’ve spent hours wearing you down. You cannot fight me and maintain Nagashizzar’s defences at the same time.’

W’soran barked a command. One of his servants snatched up a fell blade from a fallen wight and charged at Arkhan. The blood-drinker’s sword blurred through the air, but the liche weaved away from the blow and chopped off the servant’s sword-hand. His return stroke bisected the creature’s skull. And at that moment, W’soran struck.

The bolt of necromantic force struck the corpse of W’soran’s servant first. Rather than shield Arkhan from the blast, however, it prevented him from seeing the attack coming until it was too late. Its power consumed the corpse in an instant, converting it to energy and adding fuel to the attack.

Arkhan tried to dispel the bolt’s energy even as it enveloped him. His armour began to melt at once. The leather beneath it blackened and caught fire. The impact was so intense, he felt no pain – just a gale of power that began to rip his soul free from its moorings and hurl it into the outer darkness.

W’soran cackled in triumph, despite the strain etched on his skeletal features. He held nothing back; all of his remaining power coursed through the bolt that was slowly ripping Arkhan apart.

‘You’ve underestimated me for the last time, Arkhan the Black,’ W’soran sneered. ‘I am the greatest necromancer in the world. Beg my forgiveness. Plead with me for mercy, and perhaps I will destroy your soul instead of consigning it to the Abyss.’

Arkhan fell to his knees. It took every last iota of his will just to stay upright. The power of the spell was too strong; there was no chance of turning it aside. His burning armour fell away and the skeleton beneath began to blacken. He could not speak, could not move. Darkness, absolute and eternal, began to close in around him.

It was all he could do to focus upon a single thought, and distract W’soran long enough for his last surviving wight to chop its blade into the blood-drinker’s neck.

W’soran spasmed. Ichor gushed from his gaping mouth. His spell failed as he staggered, reeling away from the wight’s blow. Arkhan’s bodyguard pulled its fell blade free and made to strike again, but W’soran lashed out with his fist and struck the wight in the side of its helmet. Bronze crumpled under the blow, and the bodyguard’s skull shattered into pieces.

Dimly, Arkhan watched W’soran turn about. The blood-drinker’s eyes were wide with fear. Ichor poured from the deep wound in his neck. His stained lips moved, but no words came out. For a moment, he glared hatefully at Arkhan, then lurched towards the dais.

Arkhan summoned the last reserves of his strength. He tried to rise, to grip his sword, to curse at the stricken W’soran. The blood-drinker reached the steps of the dais and fell to his knees. One dripping hand reached for the jars at the foot of the throne.

No! Not again! Fuelled by rage, Arkhan managed to raise his hand. His jaws worked, spitting out a few arcane syllables, and three magical darts leapt from his charred fingers.

Two of the darts struck home, blasting a pair of the jars to ash. The third struck W’soran’s outstretched arm, ripping flesh from bone but not preventing him from pulling the lid from the last jar.

Arkhan watched in helpless fury as the blood-drinker was engulfed in a boiling cloud of swarming beetles. They hung there for a moment, filling the chamber with their buzzing song, and then darted in a glistening stream past the open doors of the throne room and out of sight, taking W’soran with them.

Arkhan stumbled through the darkness of the deep tunnels, clutching his prizes tightly to his chest. His armour was gone, and his robes hung about him in tatters. His sword belt barely hung about his hips, causing the blade to clatter against his legs with every halting step.

He had lost count of how long he had been walking through the depths of the great mountain. By now, Raamket and the others would have reached the throne room and found the remains of his wights. No doubt they were searching for him, expecting him to be plundering Nagash’s sanctums, or poring through his vaults. They could look for days before they realized he was nowhere about, though he expected their own greed would cause them to forget about him soon enough.

They were welcome to the fortress and everything in it. They could have the mountain and the abn-i-khat, if they were bold enough to try and use it. By now, the rat-men had to know of Nagash’s demise. Soon enough they would return in their thousands to claim the burning stone. After Raamket and the others were finished betraying one another for Nagashizzar’s treasure, they would be easy prey for the creatures.

Arkhan had what he’d come for: three of Nagash’s tomes, chosen randomly from the pile. It didn’t matter that he might not be able to use the knowledge contained within, so long as no one else could as well. He’d taken crucial bits from the puzzle of Nagash’s masterwork, ensuring that no one would be able to master his most potent rituals. He would take them to his tower in the depths of the great desert and seal them away in the deepest vault he had.

There would be no other master of the undead. For the first time in centuries, he was free.

Moonlight shone faintly down the rocky tunnel ahead. Up above, the world waited. Soon enough, it would tremble at the sound of Arkhan’s name.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mike Lee’s credits for the Black Library include the Horus Heresy title Fallen Angels and ‘The Rise of Nagash’ trilogy for Time of Legends, as well as writing the Malus Darkblade series with Dan Abnett. An avid wargamer and devoted fan of pulp adventure, Mike lives in the United States.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

Cover illustration by Jon Sullivan.

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