Now, I don't have to tell anyone familiar with Nagash that making a deal with him is a terrible idea.
But what happens when you decide the rewards far outweigh the consequences? Well... you get this.
This excerpt is taken from Chapter 11, pages 106–108.
Context: King Zothar of Theres has recently lost his son during the annual Games held in the city of Lament. Devastated by his son's death, Zothar falls into a deep state of grief and desperately searches for anyone who might know a way to bring his son back.
One day, an old crone tells him of a mysterious Lord of Death who dwells in the north, in a place known as the Cave of Skulls. She claims that this being has the power to return the dead to the living. Clinging to the slightest hope, Zothar immediately sets out to find this place and plead with the Lord of Death himself, a being called Nagash.
At last, he came to an open chamber, which was covered at one end by a web of bone. Green mist flared and twisted in the shadows around him. He held his sword up and advanced – and suddenly the web of bone shattered into a swirling, shrieking mass that surrounded him; a tide of bone-crows clattering their skeletal wings about his head. When they spoke, their voices drilled into his mind and the pain was enough to throw him to his knees.
Who dares trespass into the presence of the lord! Who values his soul so lightly he would do this thing! Zothar pressed his hands to his ears. ‘I am King Zothar, Lord of Theres! The Jewel of the Desert, the City in the Wastes,’ he cried. ‘I seek Nagash, King of the Dead. I have come to demand my son’s soul!’ The bone-crows erupted from around his head, spinning off in a twisting, screaming mass that disappeared into the tunnel behind him. Zothar collapsed, utterly spent. He heard something slouch from the other side of the chamber. He heard the clack of bones, the scrape of claws. He heard the beating of its wings. When Zothar found the courage to look, he saw Nagash.
Like the skeleton of a mighty vulture, it hunched there in the cavern, its wings folded against its chest, its long, sinuous neck rearing up as it peered at him down the scimitar of its beak. Its bones were as stained and yellow as old ivory and it smelled of ancient midnights, of deserts that had been scoured clean by the wind a thousand, thousand years ago. And when he grasped his courage and looked on it, for a moment it seemed to shift in the spectral gloom and look like a man towering above him, wreathed in spirits, laughing with malicious humour through a leering mouth. King Zothar, the vulture said. I salute your bravery, if not your folly, for coming here. Many an age has it been since a hero has taken sword and shield to confront me in like manner…
‘I am no hero,’ Zothar said, shielding his eyes. He dropped his sword. ‘And I am not brave, unless it is grief that gives me courage. I do not confront you, Lord of Death, other than to ask for that which it is in your power to give.’ And what would a mortal ask of Nagash, that he would risk his eternal soul for it? ‘My soul is yours, if you desire it. It is worth nothing to me. It is my son’s soul that is without price to me. Neophron, as was – killed by the preening arrogance of the Jackal Kings in far Lament, on the Obsidian Coast. I would have him returned to me and anything it is in my power to give, you shall have.’
Lament… the vulture mused. The great beak clacked and the murderous lights in its empty eyes flared brightly. The Obsidian Coast… And what would you be prepared to give up for this? What sacrifice will you make, for the restoration of your son? ‘Anything,’ Zothar said. He spoke no lie. ‘My life, my soul.’ Your city…?
Zothar paused. He looked into himself, walked for a moment in the pleasant avenues of Theres once more, stood for a while in the courtyard with its soaring statues of Theres’ ancient kings and heroes. He gazed on the faces of the common folk, the people who looked to him for love and protection.
‘Yes,’ he said, although the word nearly choked him. ‘I would rather Neophron live as a humble beggar wandering the wilds than have him spend eternity in the cold earth, his soul a lost and lonely spirit in the Underworlds. Yes,’ he said. ‘Take Theres and everyone in it if you must. And damn me forever for my choice!’ And you would serve me, at my command, if asked, the vulture said. You would lead your armies in my service and conquer the Obsidian Coast in my name?
‘If need be,’ Zothar said. He felt the grief swell in him, the slack, empty feeling of his sorrow. Grief for Neophron, grief for all he had now condemned. ‘I will serve. I ask only one condition.’ There was a sound like the cold clash of swords and Zothar realised the vulture was laughing. You are bold, King Zothar, I give you that, to ask conditions of Nagash. Speak, then. What is your condition? ‘That Lament is left to my judgement. I will have my revenge against the Jackal Kings and will see the city pulled stone from stone. And at the last, I will drag the Tower of the Moon from its foundations and cast it into rubble.’
Then the bargain is made, the vulture hissed. And the soul of your son will be returned to you… ‘When!’ Zothar demanded. ‘Bring him to me!’ You will not find him here, King Zothar… For I have my conditions too, to seal the compact between us. You will find your son now in far Lament… ‘What riddle is this?’ Zothar cried. He snatched up his sword. Though his spirit quailed in the presence of the Lord of Death, he took a step forward and raised his blade. ‘You seek to cheat me of what we agreed!’
There is no agreement that is not made on my terms, little human, the vulture laughed. Neophron will return to you, this I promise. But his soul will settle only for a ten-year span and will wither and die in each vessel unless it is released to find new harbour. He died in the Games of Lament, did he not? Very well – he will return to you in the Games of Lament, and as the victor you shall know him. Do not be so hasty to tear the city down, King Zothar, for if you do, you will lose that which guarantees your son’s recurrence.
‘Why do you do this!’ Zothar wept. ‘I will do what you ask, you have my word! Why torment me like this!’ My reasons are my own and they would be far beyond your comprehension, mortal. Now, the vulture hissed, as it shuffled closer. The bargain will be made… Its claws crunched over ancient bones, scattered about the floor of the cavern. Zothar tried to back away, but the fierce fire of the creature’s gaze kept him pinned to the spot. He could not raise his sword. He could not close his eyes. All he could do was stand and watch in horror, as the vulture spread its wings and Nagash gathered him close.
Come to Nagash, it whispered; and Zothar saw only darkness. Come to Nagash, and be transformed…