Neferata

TEN




The City of Bel Aliad

(–1150 Imperial Reckoning)

Bel Aliad heaved in the throes of civil war. Kontoi warred on Kontoi, noble house on noble house. Neferata moved through the incense-shrouded corridors of the ghoul-god’s temple, followed by a panting praetorian guard of half-armoured ghouls. These were the largest of the colony beneath the temple, the ones who feasted on the freshest flesh and felt no fear in battle. They carried tulwars and, remarkably, possessed some skill in their use. Khaled had seen to that, at least.

Neferata herself wore the flowing mail coat of a Kontoi, and had a jewel-hilted scimitar sheathed on her hip. She disdained the use of a helmet, having never developed a liking for the feeling of metal and wood enclosing her skull. Her armour was covered in crusted, dried blood and when she stopped, several of her whining guards licked at the stains. Neferata ignored their antics. She stood in the central plaza of the temple, where her handmaidens – those who weren’t involved in the fighting – oversaw the control of those parts of Bel Aliad that they held. Neferata scanned the faces of her followers and the priests who bustled about.

‘Where is he?’ she snapped.

‘Where do you think?’ Naaima said. The other vampire sat on Neferata’s throne, reading a report. She tossed the scroll aside and pushed herself to her feet. ‘He took as many ghouls as we could spare and went down into the tunnels. He’s heading–’

‘For the caliph’s palace, yes,’ Neferata said, rubbing her brow.

‘You should have killed him.’

‘Possibly,’ Neferata said. ‘And possibly his bloodlust will serve our purposes. As long as Al-Khattab holds the caliph, he holds the illusion of legitimacy. Khaled will be hailed as a rescuer…’

‘By whom?’ Naaima asked. ‘The people on whom he feeds openly or the nobles whom he seeks to topple? Both fight us now, as well as Al-Khattab’s conspirators!’ Naaima trembled with anger. ‘I warned you! I told you–’

‘Be silent!’ Neferata snarled, her voice echoing from the pillars. Every living thing, and most of the dead, froze at the sound of those words. Naaima stepped back, as if slapped. Neferata fell silent. She looked around. ‘Where is Anmar?’

‘I sent her with Rasha. There is a force approaching the city… I thought it best to find out who they are,’ Naaima said hesitantly.

‘When did you send them?’ Neferata said.

Before Naaima could reply, there was a crash. The roof of the temple buckled and a section fell, crushing a number of priests and trapping one of Neferata’s handmaidens. The vampire writhed beneath the stone, her lower body crushed to a paste. She shrieked wordlessly, her fists battering at the stone and her human face dissolving into a mask of animal pain.

Neferata moved swiftly to her side. She knelt and took her handmaiden’s head in her lap. The woman’s screams quieted to whimpers. ‘Find out what’s going on,’ she said, flinging out a hand imperiously. Then she leaned over the wounded vampire, whispering comforting nonsense into her ear. With time and care, she might survive, but Neferata had neither. But she could see that her ending was as merciful as possible. That much she could do. Stroking the vampire’s head, Neferata took a firm grip on her skull and, with barely more effort than it would take to crack an egg, she crushed it; the vampire spasmed and lay still, her unnatural life leaving her.

As Neferata let the remains of the corpse’s head slough from her hands, something rolled out of the rubble. The skull was shattered and burning, but it chattered nonetheless as it caught sight of her, its blackened teeth clicking together as it crept towards her on tendrils of flame. Neferata batted it away with a hiss, watching as it shattered.

Neferata stood, holding out her hands for her ghouls. The creatures grabbed her wrists with pathetic eagerness and their cold tongues washed her fingers clean. She turned as Naaima rushed back into the plaza. ‘Well? Is it Al-Khattab?’ Even as she said it, she knew what the answer would be.

‘No,’ Naaima said. ‘It is–’

Screams filled the air, echoing from the stone, reaching the plaza and its inhabitants from all across the city. The temple rocked as more burning skulls, howling like a chorus of wolves, crashed through the roof, showering the plaza in stone and splintered wood.

A ghoul screamed as one of the skulls, half crushed by its descent, fastened its jagged teeth in its leg. It began to gnaw wildly. Neferata felt something dark and ugly on the wind as Naaima finally managed to spit out her answer.

‘It’s Arkhan! Arkhan the Black lays siege to Bel Aliad!’

The Worlds Edge Mountains

(–450 Imperial Reckoning)

By the time she reached Vorag and the others, the horsemen were looking impatient. The dwarfs melted back into the shadows of the hills and scrub pines almost as quietly as her handmaidens could have done.

‘Well?’ Vorag snarled. He leaned over his saddle horn, his muscles contracting and swelling as if there was a storm going on beneath his hairy skin. ‘Is it to be war? Or do we leave the stunted little fools to it?’

Neferata smiled. ‘War, of course,’ she said. Vorag threw back his head and howled. Moments later the men of his personal guard joined in, followed by the common soldiers who clustered around the riders. The howl echoed up through the pines and washed across the hills.

Stregga led a horse out of the group towards Neferata and the latter climbed quickly into the saddle. ‘I’ve already sent a messenger to the wildlings. They’ll launch their attack by morning.’

‘If they don’t run home first,’ Vorag grunted. ‘They’re cowards, the lot of them.’

‘They won’t,’ Neferata said, thinking of Iona and the other ‘priestesses’ scattered throughout the seraglios of the headmen of the tribes, both large and small, that had come at her request. Her daughters held those men’s hearts and minds close, even as she held theirs. Like Stregga and Rasha and all of the others, they saw the truth of Neferata’s vision. They saw that a quiet word was more powerful than all of the swords a tribe could muster.

Those women, hammered into shape to suit her purpose, would hold their kings, chieftains and masters to the sharp edge of her design. She glanced at Stregga, whose hand had found Vorag’s thigh. She gently squeezed his leg and the big vampire looked at her, his eyes hot with lust and, perhaps, something deeper.

Neferata turned away, wondering if their kind could feel love. Lust, she knew. Longing too, though it was a hard, harsh desire rather than the softer, more romantic kind she had known in life. Anmar seemed to love her brother fiercely for all that he didn’t deserve it, the fool.

All will love you, when all is silent.

The voice was thin here, this far from Mourkain. Just a sibilant whisper, pressing against the underside of her mind, clinging like lichen to each thought. It was easy to ignore. Easy… She shook herself.

‘Mistress,’ someone said. She looked down.

‘Layla,’ Neferata said kindly, pushing a loose strand of the former scullery maid’s hair up beneath her helmet. She wore the light armour that all of Neferata’s handmaidens preferred, and wore it well. Her hand clenched nervously on the hilt of the sword at her waist. ‘Are you ready for your first battle, my child?’

Layla showed her fangs as she smiled. ‘I look forward to it,’ she said, drawing her sword slightly before slamming it home again. Neferata smiled indulgently. Despite her earlier protestations, the girl had become exceedingly useful, with Anmar occupied keeping her brother out of trouble.

‘Keep your wits about you, my little she-wolf,’ Neferata said. ‘It is easy to get lost in the haze of bloodthirst, but to do so is to court death.’

Layla nodded earnestly. ‘I will be careful, my lady.’

‘Stay close to me, pup, I’ll see you through it,’ Stregga said loudly, riding close. She shared a look with Neferata. ‘We’ve got to blood these new girls, my queen – teach them to hunt and make a kill on their own,’ she said. She grinned insouciantly and tossed her honey-coloured hair. Like Neferata, she preferred to fight bare-headed.

Neferata chuckled and turned in her saddle. ‘We need to ride out, while we still have the cover of the night,’ she said to Vorag. ‘We need to get in position.’

‘More beautiful words were never spoken,’ Vorag rumbled, patting his horse’s neck.

The ride was a long one, and though the strength of the barrel-chested horses of the Strigoi was indefatigable, that of the unmounted warriors was not. They were hill-fighters, and tough, but keeping up with horses in uneven terrain over the course of several days tested even the toughest among them. The vampires, in contrast, moved smoothly and swiftly. Neferata’s handmaidens ran like pale lionesses through the crooked trees, outpacing and ranging ahead of the main body of the army.

The army was made up of frontier troops, men tested in years of battle against the orcs and beasts. Every frontier lord, no matter how minor, had some number of troops, and this expedition consisted of a number of frontier nobility. Vorag’s men, in the main, or those whom he was grooming in his barbaric way. Neferata knew, with the certainty of long experience, that Vorag was training an army. The frontier agals had long chafed at the demands Mourkain placed on them. Ushoran used the frontiers of Strigos as a dumping ground for those who displeased him or otherwise were not suitable for his court: the savages, the bloodthirsty and the rebellious.

In other words, they were the perfect tools.

On the third day, somewhere far ahead and to the east, Neferata’s keen hearing caught a sharp bleat from a primitive horn. She growled in satisfaction. The wildlings were on the move as well. She urged her horse on to greater speed. They swept through the ragged valleys and up steep slopes, only stopping when they had reached a thickly forested hill overlooking a rock-strewn gorge. Neferata reined in her lathered horse and swung from the saddle as Vorag said, ‘Here?’

‘If all goes according to plan, yes,’ Neferata said, walking to the edge of the treeline. ‘Make camp, and set out the pickets. We could be waiting for some time.’

‘Some time’ turned into another day and a night. Beneath the dark trees, the vampires could hide from the ravages of the sun. Neferata herself felt nothing; she stuck her hand into the light, letting it play across her fingers. A momentary tingle, like a kiss of heat, but that was all.

‘I miss the sunlight,’ Layla said, joining her at the treeline, but keeping well back from the cruel light. The sun was setting, but there was still enough of it over the horizon to prove dangerous to the younger of her handmaidens. The girl looked none the worse for wear for her lengthy run. She was still fascinated with the abilities that had been gifted to her, like a child with a new toy.

‘You will feel it again,’ Neferata said, pulling her hand back. ‘With age comes strength. For now, you must be satisfied with the moonlight.’

The girl frowned, but said nothing. Neferata turned back to the valley and the horizon. The evening breeze carried the wild cry of the war-horns of the tribes as they mingled with the brutish drum-beats of the orcs. The wildlings had thrown themselves into their fight with commendable ferocity. Surprising the orcs as they had, they would carve off portions of the horde leaving what continued on, drawn as it was by Wazzakaz’s momentum, for the Strigoi to weaken further. An hour later, Neferata saw the moon rise and felt the soil shift slightly. The vibration was faint, but she recognised its meaning. ‘They’re coming,’ she said loudly.

‘It’s about time. I thought this plan of yours was going to be fast,’ Vorag groused before turning to bellow orders to his subordinates. Neferata summoned Layla with a crook of her finger.

‘Get up that tree and tell me what you see,’ Neferata said, gesturing. Layla obeyed with an alacrity that made Stregga chuckle as she joined Neferata.

‘She reminds me of someone. Can’t quite put a finger on it…’ the Sartosan said. Neferata glanced at her and the chuckles died away. Stregga shrugged. ‘Sorry, mistress,’ she said.

‘There is nothing to apologise for,’ Neferata said. ‘Simply watch your tone.’

‘Of course, mistress, I’m good at that, me. Soul of discretion. Quiet as a mouse. Silent as a leopard. Soft, like a–’

Neferata looked at her handmaiden steadily. Stregga grinned cheerily. Neferata snorted and turned away. ‘I knew I should have killed you in Sartosa.’

‘Good thing you didn’t, eh?’ Stregga said. ‘When the bone-kings came calling, I was invaluable, if I do say so myself.’

Neferata snorted again and tapped her fingers on the pommel of her sword. ‘My tolerance is not limitless, Lupa.’

‘But my usefulness is,’ Stregga said. ‘Besides which, Vorag would protect me, eh Vorag?’

‘She’s almost killed me once, she-wolf. I’ll not risk that again, not even for a morsel as delectable as yourself,’ Vorag said heartily, joining them at the treeline.

Stregga made a face and Neferata smiled. She looked aside at Vorag and said, ‘You seem cheerful, champion of Mourkain.’

Vorag’s smile dissolved. ‘I’ll not hold that title much longer,’ he said.

‘No, you won’t,’ Neferata said.

‘Abhorash,’ Vorag said, chewing the name of his rival like a piece of stubborn gristle.

‘The people love him,’ Neferata said. ‘My people loved him as well, before he abandoned them.’

Vorag growled. Stregga moved to his side comfortingly. ‘Ushoran wants him to take command of the armies. Says my ways are old-fashioned,’ he said.

Which they are, Neferata thought. You are an anachronism, Bloodytooth, even in these primitive lands. And Ushoran is smart enough to recognise the game you’re playing. ‘He has replaced many of your comrades and peers as well,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘Men who should have received the kiss withered and died while arrogant play-warriors live forever in glory. Zandor, for instance, or that preening fop Gashnag, neither of whom are a match for you.’

He looked at her, one fang protruding as he sucked on his lip. ‘No, they are not. Once, we were men. Now we are nothing but ticks or fleas on the carcass of a dog.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Neferata said. ‘I’m sure many feel as you do.’ Mainly because I have ensured that they do so, over the course of these past centuries. Not just other vampires either, but those noble families who have continually been passed over for induction into the ranks of the immortals, she thought with satisfaction. The wives and lovers of the Strigoi nobles had fairly fallen over themselves to receive her kiss. Ushoran refused to ‘waste’ his on women whom he saw as little better than dogs in heat. And those women had had years to mull over that insult and remind their husbands and lovers of it, as well as every other petty hurt Ushoran had done.

‘They do,’ Vorag said softly. It was his turn not to look at her. ‘They say Abhorash’s time in the north will be longer than he first thought. That the northern daemon-lovers are proving stronger than he estimated.’

‘Abhorash always did overestimate his own prowess,’ Neferata said smoothly. The ‘scouts’ she had sent into the north prior to Abhorash’s expedition had obviously done their job. Mourkain gold now filled the pockets of northern warlords, and they were more than happy to band together to stave off Strigos’s encroachment into the wastes. They would not succeed… Abhorash was effective for all his arrogance. But he would be occupied for years; long enough to see Ushoran put in his proper place… at her feet.

‘With him gone,’ Vorag began carefully, ‘Ushoran has few allies at court, though he knows it not.’

Neferata’s expression did not change. ‘Nor will he. Ushoran is remarkably blind for one who prides himself on his cunning.’

‘He is no true Strigoi,’ Vorag said.

‘Neither am I.’

He looked at her. ‘But you are not king.’

‘Nor would I be,’ Neferata said. ‘I have ruled, in my time. I found it… tedious.’

Vorag nodded, taking her comment at face value. ‘And you bear Ushoran no love.’

‘No,’ Neferata said, allowing herself a small smile. ‘No, I do not.’

Vorag nodded, as if satisfied. He was silent for a moment, visibly marshalling his thoughts. Stregga looked at her mistress. Neferata nodded slightly. It had not been difficult to bring Vorag around. The Strigoi were barbarians despite the veneer of civilisation that they wore. And for barbarians, treachery was like breathing. All it required was time to contemplate and machinate, something which vampires had in abundance.

The difficult part had been making Vorag think it was his idea to approach her. But now that he had done so, she could at last pull tight the strands of her carefully crafted web. ‘These are times of change,’ Vorag said, finally. It was an obtuse way of saying ‘coup’, but Neferata understood him nonetheless.

‘Sometimes, change is for the better,’ Neferata said. ‘This is a mighty army, Timagal. It could accomplish much.’

Vorag shot her a look. But before he could reply, there was a shout from above. Layla dropped down from the branches overhead, landing on all fours in a shower of pine needles. ‘They come, mistress!’ she said, visibly excited. ‘The orcs, even as you said!’

‘Ha!’ Neferata smacked her palms together. ‘Vorag, get the men in place and ready your riders! We shall have to time this perfectly.’ They needed to shave the orcs, not shatter them or draw their full ire. She only had a few thousand men, and she needed to hoard their strength for future endeavours. Vorag hastened to obey her orders. Neferata grabbed Stregga. ‘Stay by my side, Lupa. You as well, Layla,’ she said. ‘We will be needed here.’

‘Lovely. At the sharp end again, eh, my lady?’ Stregga said, drawing her sword and sighting down the length of the blade.

‘It’s where we belong,’ Neferata said, flinging off her cloak. The tribes had done their job well; the orcs streaming into the valley were disorganised. They were still dangerous for all that, and there were still enough of them to prove troublesome for Razek’s throng further up the valley. They needed to get their attention.

‘Sound the drums,’ Neferata shouted, her voice carrying across the slope. ‘Form up the dragon’s scales!’ In answer to her cry, the war-drums sounded, bone striking stretched skin in a deep, thudding rhythm. A thousand heavy bronze and wood shields, each the size of the warrior wielding them, were slammed down onto the hard-packed soil of the slope. The spikes that lined the bottom of each shield bit into the earth and anchored the barrier even as the shield-wielders crouched low at the barked order of the ajal in command, bracing the shields with their bodies. The ajal roared out another command and the second line of men stepped forwards, extending the pitch-hardened wooden stakes they held over the top of the shields. The heads of the stakes were equipped with bronze cross-pieces, to prevent the surprisingly durable orcs from pulling themselves down the length of the spear. The Strigoi had learned over the decades that the best way to handle the urka was from a distance. Pin them and butcher them at leisure.

The drums continued to thunder dully as the Strigoi battle-line settled into the position they would hold for the entirety of the battle to come. There would be no retreat. ‘Curious strategy,’ Vorag grunted, eyeing the line. He was already mounted and his frame trembled with eagerness.

‘Cathay is a curious place,’ Neferata replied. Drilling the rambunctious Strigoi in Cathayan military manoeuvres had been a battle in and of itself – one she had only accomplished by pricking Abhorash’s vanity. She needed soldiers, not warriors. He had grasped the tactics and strategies of the armies of the east and adapted them to the Strigoi’s more brutal methods of warfare with instinctive ease, and she suspected that Abhorash had spent some time in Cathay, though he never admitted to such.

Indeed, Abhorash rarely spoke to her at all. He kept to his men, training his armoured riders in the arts of the Arabyan Kontoi and the Khazag riders of the eastern steppes, crafting an elite core for Ushoran’s growing army. She wasn’t offended. Far from it, in fact; the further Abhorash stayed away from her, the better. She knew the others felt the same way, especially W’soran. Abhorash’s honour was an anchor around all of their necks. It weighed them down and reminded them of what they had once had, and what they would never have.

‘The orcs are a flood, Timagal Vorag,’ she continued. ‘We must let them bleed themselves on our rocks rather than attempt to match them, savagery for savagery.’

‘As long as I get a taste of that blood,’ Vorag growled.

‘Have no fear in that regard,’ she said. Neferata swept her sword out, and the drums thudded. The third rank stepped forwards, raising their bows. The Strigoi bows were stubby recurved things, meant to be fired from horseback at the gallop. Crafted from wood, horn and sinew and bound together with animal glue, they possessed a startling punch for their size. She jabbed the air and the archers reared back, aiming upwards.

‘You remember the plan?’ she said, not looking at Vorag.

‘Of course,’ he grunted. ‘Have no fear, Neferata. The Bloodytooth will not fail you.’ He snapped his reins and wheeled his horse about. In moments, Vorag’s riders began moving back around the hill, secreting themselves in the thick trees. Neferata raised her sword, letting the iron catch the moonlight.

The valley had become a vast, seething ocean of green beneath the moon. There were thousands of them, like ants fleeing an ant hill. Larger shapes moved through the tide, carried on savage currents – giants and trolls and howling, shrieking crimson things that were more fungus than beast.

Neferata’s sword dropped. Bows twanged and a solid cloud of arrows momentarily blotted out the moon. The horde below heaved like a wounded animal biting its flank.

‘That got their attention,’ Stregga said.

‘And now we need to keep it,’ Neferata said, raising her sword again. Two more volleys followed the first, and the mass of orcs disintegrated, a huge wave breaking off from the main body to crash towards the slope where the Strigoi waited. Neferata hissed. There were more of them than she had thought. She cast a calculating eye over the battle-line. The Strigoi were orc-fighters without peer, save for perhaps the dwarfs, but even they could be overwhelmed.

‘Sanzak, get them ready,’ Neferata said. The ajal in charge of the closest section of the line nodded; his eyes were red in the gloom. He was one of Vorag’s get and bore his master’s brute stamp upon his features. He began snarling out orders as the first line of Strigoi readied themselves, and his commands were echoed up and down the line by his fellow ajals. The men stank of nervousness and battle-lust. Neferata waited just behind the line. She signalled for another volley.

Orcs fell even as they ascended the slope, but the creatures pressed forwards. Their green flesh daubed with savage azure tattoos and hideous war-whoops on their lips, the orcs were a terrifying sight. They struggled up the hill hour after hour in a wave of grunting, howling bodies, each one striving to be the first to reach the crest of the hill where the Strigoi waited for them. The stakes were heavy with brackish orc blood and the men wielding them were exhausted. Replacements scrambled into position beneath the shields, to give their wielders a moment to rest.

Momentum alone would have carried the orcs up and over eventually, despite the rain of arrows that cut through their ranks time and again, and that same momentum would carry them over the line of spearmen. They were stubborn creatures, fond of battle and inured to setback.

The only hope in thwarting an orc charge was, therefore, to surprise them.

‘We’re running low on arrows,’ Sanzak called out.

‘Not surprising,’ Stregga muttered. ‘If we can’t keep them off the line, they’ll roll right over us.’

‘I know. Now it’s our turn,’ Neferata said, looking at Layla. The girl bared her fangs and drew her sword with a flourish. Without another word, Neferata charged down the slope and leapt into the air, her sword flashing out. An orc’s howl was cut short as her blade separated its head from its shoulders. As she landed, she gutted a second, nose wrinkling at the stench of its spilling innards. Crude stone weapons shattered as they struck against the armour she wore. Spinning, she bisected another of the brutes.

Neferata spun, and orcs died. Nearby, Stregga copied her mistress’s action and bounded down the slope, unleashing months of repressed savagery on the hapless greenskins. The vampire shrieked wordlessly as her sword licked out, lopping off limbs and heads with abandon.

Layla was, if anything, even more vicious than the other vampire. Her flesh rippled, sprouting a coat of thick, dark hair, and her skull elongated into something more vulpine than human as she crashed into the orcs, singing a Strigoi death-song. Her claws raked out, gutting a goblin even as she cut an orc in two at the waist with her blade.

Several of the ajal followed suit, the Strigoi bounding out of the shield-line with red-eyed eagerness. They fought like animals, wielding massive hammers and swords that pulped bone and meat alike. All in all, a dozen vampires had crashed into the orcs and within moments they were wading through corpses and blood in a savage frenzy.

But savage as it was, it wasn’t enough. Neither did it need to be. Neferata raised her sword as high as she could, and the drums set to with a ferocity that even outdid that of the orcs. Moments later, with a howling cry, Vorag’s riders broke from cover and charged. The horses sprang across the slope speedily, their hooves setting the ground to trembling.

‘Back,’ Neferata shouted. ‘Fall back!’ The vampires broke away from the fighting and scrambled back towards the line of shields as the horsemen rode into the fray. The riders howled and roared, and the bows in their hands peppered the orc flank raggedly. Orcs fell, struck by dozens of arrows. Other riders, led by Vorag, carried heavy-bladed spears which dipped and punctured green flesh. But the Strigoi had other tricks than just these.

On each horse’s haunch was a tough fibre net. At Vorag’s bellowed command, his men slashed the nets and let what they contained tumble in their mounts’ wakes. Soon, each horse was dragging a web of chains and thick ropes ending in spiked bars, hooks and blades which clattered loudly as the horsemen neared the orcs.

As Vorag’s riders struck the flank, they did not slow. Instead, they urged their horses to greater speed and rode on, leaving a path of carnage in their wake. The blades and bars jumped and swung as the horses galloped and smashed into the orcs, knocking them off their feet or shredding them where they stood. A full two hundred riders struck the orc flank like a wedge of death and the orcs were ripped apart with almost clinical brutality, sectioned off from the main horde and dissected.

True to form, most of the orcs momentarily retreated from the slope as they sought to come to grips with the horsemen. Neferata could almost admire how quickly the creatures adapted to changing situations. She lazily blocked a spear-thrust from one of the remaining brutes and looked around. There were only a few dozen of the creatures close to the Strigoi lines. The rest were heading back for Vorag’s riders with eager roars and bellows. The spear-wielding orc lunged for her again and she chopped her sword down, splitting its skull.

Stregga snarled as Vorag’s horse went down with a burst skull, courtesy of a lucky blow. The Strigoi hit the ground and rolled to his feet in a cloud of dust, even as an orc mounted on a snorting boar charged towards him, spear levelled. Vorag deftly avoided the spear and swept his arms wide as the beast rushed towards him. He caught the boar around its neck and veins bulged black in his pale flesh as he wrenched the beast up in mid-gallop and flung it over his shoulder, snapping its spine in the process. The boar fell, spilling its rider, and Vorag pounced, jaws agape.

The battle lost cohesion moments later, devolving into a swirling melee. The signal drums thundered, calling for the horsemen to retreat as they’d planned, but to no avail. Their blood was up and it was all the ajals on the slope could do to keep the ranks from charging into the fray.

Neferata swung the flat of her blade out, striking the shield of one of the men, and snarled. ‘Back,’ she snapped. ‘Get back or lose your head! Get them in line!’ The men fell back in haste, resuming their positions, their faces white with fear as their vampire masters snarled and snapped at them.

Satisfied that order had been restored, Neferata scanned the melee. If they could find the creatures’ war-chief, they might be able to bring an end to the battle in one stroke. The former wasn’t difficult. Orcs were simple creatures, with simple desires. They wanted the biggest, loudest fight they could find, and they’d kill each other to get it. Right now, that fight was Vorag.

Neferata couldn’t help but admire the way the Strigoi fought. He lacked the precision of Abhorash or the sadism inherent in Ushoran’s tactics. Instead, Vorag fought like an animal unleashed. His size seemed to increase as he waded through the orcs that sought to pull him down. His body swelled hideously, his arms and shoulders bulging with muscle. He stabbed an orc through the head with a shattered spear and swept the body out, knocking another creature aside. His face wrinkled into a bestial grimace, his lips rolling back from needle-studded gums. Claws sprouted from his fingers and he ripped apart his enemies with wild abandon.

Pulling a squalling orc in half, Vorag threw back his head and howled. A moment later, a ground-rattling bellow echoed in reply and sent orcs scrambling as something massive thrust its way through the press that now surrounded Vorag. A saw-edged blade the length of Neferata’s leg smashed down, digging a trench in the rock of the slope and forcing Vorag to skip backwards. The orc boss was bigger than three men and its red, piggy eyes were bright with feral bloodlust. It bellowed again as its eyes fastened on Vorag. The big blade snapped out, and he sank down and it sliced the air above his head. Vorag roared and flung himself on the orc.

Neferata couldn’t identify the beast; there were dozens of bosses among the Waaagh!, each with their own tribes. This one was bigger than most, however. ‘Can he handle it?’ she said, looking at Stregga. Stregga didn’t reply. She watched the fight, her teeth bared and her eyes wide as she drank it in. Neferata growled and slapped her. ‘Stregga! Can he win?’

Stregga shook her head. ‘I-I don’t know,’ she grunted. Moments later, Vorag was knocked to the ground by a sweep of the orc’s arm. The creature roared and raised its blade over the stunned vampire.

Neferata cursed. If Vorag lost his head here, her plans would be endangered. It might take centuries to groom another capable of heading a revolt. Centuries she might not have. Hurry, Neferata! The stars spin faster and faster as dust is stirred by hollow winds. You will be a queen again and you will rule over silent, perfect cities, but only if you hurry, the voice purred at the back of her head. Annoyed, she shook it aside. A moment later she was moving, driving her own sword into the orc’s unarmoured torso.

It howled in agony. A green hand fastened on her head as she tried to pull her blade loose and she was smashed down against the slope. Bone cracked and splintered and blood burst from between her lips in an exhalation of agony. Stregga was there a moment later, hewing through the orc’s arm. The orc reared back, squalling as Layla leapt upon its back and clawed at its eyes.

Neferata pulled herself to her feet, grimacing in pain as her wounds re-knit. She lunged upwards, her teeth snapping together in the meat of the beast’s throat. With a jerk of her head, she tore its throat out. It toppled backwards, and she rode it down, crouching on it. Gagging, she spat out the foul-tasting lump of meat and hissed at the orcs who had stopped to watch the fight. Stregga joined her, snarling like a hungry tigress.

Clutching her wounds, Neferata shrieked. The sound of it echoed across the slope, bouncing from tree to rock. One by one, slowly at first, then faster and faster, the orc advance became a retreat. The green wave reversed itself and began to wash downhill, back into the valley below. The Strigoi sent a farewell of arrows to keep the orcs moving in the right direction.

The slaughter lasted for what seemed like hours and the darkness began to slip into the purple of dawn as it ended. Wazzakaz’s horde had been cut into thirds and reduced from a juggernaut to something substantially less intimidating. The slope was carpeted in the bodies of slain orcs.

‘Beautiful,’ Vorag said, trotting towards them. The big vampire grinned widely and leered at Stregga, looking none the worse for wear despite the blood that coated him head to toe. ‘I couldn’t have done it better myself!’

‘No, you couldn’t have,’ Stregga said, wiping her mouth.

Neferata spat – she could still taste the bitter tang of the orc’s blood. ‘Did you send riders?’ she said. Her wounds had healed, though the ghost-ache of bones broken earlier lingered.

‘Yes and the stunted ones are ready. We should be able to – there!’ Vorag gestured. The brass-banded dragon-horns of the dwarfs harrowed the frosty dawn air from their position far down in the valley. The orcs no longer had the numbers to beat the throng; they would be annihilated. Vorag rubbed his hands together. ‘Should I take my riders down there, just in case?’ he asked eagerly.

‘No,’ Neferata said. ‘I want you to stay put. We’ll need you and your riders fresh for the morrow.’

‘Why, what’s tomorrow?’

‘The dwarfs don’t pursue beaten foes. The orcs will flee. We need to grind them up and ensure that it takes generations for them to ever prove a threat again.’ Neferata kicked a dead orc and glared down into its slack features. ‘It may take days or months, but we need them beaten.’

‘But–’ Vorag began. Neferata looked at him. The other vampire grimaced and looked away, unwilling to match her gaze. ‘Fine,’ he grunted. ‘What now?’

‘We wait,’ Neferata said. ‘We let the dwarfs wet their axes as we promised. We’ll need to send a rider to Ushoran, to let him know how we’ve fared here.’ She smiled slightly at the look on Vorag’s face. ‘He will become suspicious, otherwise. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?’ Her smile grew wider and she added, ‘At least, not until it’s too late.’