Neferata

TWO




The Shark Straits

(–1163 Imperial Reckoning)

The storm lashed the sea with whips of lightning. The sea, in its turn, did its best to return the favour, heaving and thrusting ever higher. The ship rode the thrashing waves as best as it could, but the hull groaned with something like agony and the sails were ragged strips of cloth.

The captain pressed his back to the mast and extended his sword. Rain pounded down, swamping the ship. It ran down his arm and across the blade, joining the ankle-deep water that splashed across the deck. The helm was unmanned, but he had other concerns. Namely, the two slim shapes that swayed easily across the deck despite the pitch and yaw. Eyes like dark lamps fixed on him hungrily and he swiped the sword through the rain, trying to force them back.

‘Your service is to be commended, captain, but the time has come for a parting of ways,’ Neferata said, glaring at the last living man on the ship through a veil of stringy, soaked hair. Blood stained her arms to the elbow and her pale shape was marred by the filth of the lower decks. The captain, a Cathayan, shouted something defiant. Neferata’s eyes flickered to the side.

‘He is damning us to the six hells,’ Naaima said.

‘That’s what I thought he said,’ Neferata said. She was pleased in an almost child-like fashion with her facility with languages, but the Cathayan tongue was more complex than any she had ever encountered. ‘Well, he’s a bit late for that,’ she said, snapping her fangs together.

The ship was bound for Araby, loaded down with silks and steel to trade for spices and slaves. In the years since her flight from Lahmia, Neferata had done well in Cathay. Too well, in fact. The powers entrenched there had not taken kindly to the former queen’s predatory attentions.

If there was one thing that her final confrontation with Alcadizzar had taught her, it was when to become the memory of a thorn, rather than the thorn itself. The subtle politics of the east, as compared to those she had employed in Nehekhara, had been eye-opening. The great bureaucracy was composed of rings of power, each smaller than the next, spider-webs of steel influence and precision. Any man could be king, but to be the one who controlled the king – who controlled all kings – that was true power.

Unfortunately, those lessons had come too late to do her much good in the lands of the Dragon-Emperor. Now she was fleeing again, a fact which rubbed at her soul like a bit of grit caught beneath armour. Still, needs must…

The first absent crew member had been blamed on the sea and a sudden swell. The second had been blamed on the same, with the addition of drunkenness to explain such misfortune occurring twice in one voyage. By the third, the crew had been stalking the holds, weapons clutched in their sweaty hands. They had heard the stories of the gangshi – the stiff corpses that walked – that had come out of the capital in the preceding years, and like all sailors, were superstitious enough to believe those stories.

Neferata idly stroked the still healing spot on her belly where a bilge-hook had entered as she slept. The storm had been a gift from the gods, blacking the sky and setting the crew’s minds to other, more pressing dangers. The Shark Straits were visible, and the storm seemed determined to drive the ship right into their jagged teeth.

‘A parting of ways,’ Naaima echoed. Her face was as expressionless as a porcelain mask. Neferata knew her handmaiden well enough to see the storm of emotions hidden beneath the mask. As practical as she was, as ruthless as she could be, she lacked the stomach for slaughter. Killing had never sat well with Naaima. She preferred to sup in moderation, taking gentle nourishment from suitably docile partners or pets. Neferata recognised the inherent longevity of such a practice, but something wilder stirred in her at times, as now.

It was not quite hunger. Rather, it was a savage frenzy, a slaughter-lust that bubbled beneath her calm façade for months or years and then suddenly erupted. It was not only blood that she required; she needed death and pain and the screams of her prey as she clutched their throats between her teeth.

With a wildcat scream, she lunged through the sheets of rain that separated her from the Cathayan captain. With a yell he swung his sword, but Naaima was there, smashing his sword-arm to the mast and pinning it there. Neferata crashed against him, his armour digging into her flesh as her fingertips dug into his. He thrashed in a pleasing manner as she grabbed his topknot and yanked his head back, exposing his throat. She purred in pleasure as her fangs sank into his unshaven throat. Blood exploded into her mouth and the purr turned to a snarl as she gulped at the hot flow. His body gave a spasm and she stepped back, gesturing imperiously for Naaima to take her place at the still-gushing spigot.

The ship rolled beneath her feet as she glided towards the deck rail. The Shark Straits rose dark and hungry before her. The ship would run aground on them, and the scavengers said to lurk in their shadow would descend on the wreck when the storm had subsided. And from there, the caliphates of Araby awaited.

Neferata spread her arms over her head and laughed gleefully as the storm battered the ship towards the waiting rocks…

The Worlds Edge Mountains

(–800 Imperial Reckoning)

The fire crackled, casting twisted shadows across the snow. The flames rose like grasping hands. In her head, bones clattered across still vistas on a ceaseless, remorseless march. Words spattered across the surface of her mind, blotting out her thoughts. Eyes of green balefire stared at her from out of the heart of the fire, bright with predatory intent. They held her and pulled her into the dark. It was the needle-on-bone voice again, digging into her consciousness.

Neferata… The dead are stirring in their ancient tombs. They will rise and march across the world and force time itself to stop in its tracks…

Neferata…

‘Neferata,’ Naaima said.

Neferata blinked and her snarl rippled across the clearing. ‘What is it?’ she snapped, whirling on her handmaiden. Naaima stood her ground.

‘The dwarf is awake,’ she said.

Neferata shook aside the strange thoughts that clung to her consciousness like cobwebs and looked over at the dwarf. He was a peculiar looking creature – all broad muscle and hair, wrapped up in armour more fine than that of even the kings of Nehekhara and leathers more skilfully tanned than any done by the hands of men. Such skill could be put to good use by the right hands. She stalked towards him and dropped down beside him.

She fingered one of the talismans attached to his armour and hissed as something snagged her. She sucked on her fingers and eyed the shiny silver amulet balefully. The dwarf groaned and his eyes cracked open. ‘Bugrit,’ he said, stubby fingers reaching up to prod the crude bandage wrapped around his head. More bandages covered his arms and neck, and all were stained with crusted blood. The dwarf had lost much of the latter, and his flesh was the color of stripped bark. His eyes were dull with pain.

‘Quite so,’ Neferata said. She gestured and Naaima dropped to her haunches beside the improvised litter they had constructed out of a shield and two branches. The Cathayan gently probed the dwarf’s skull and then moved on to his other wounds. The smell of his blood was less strong now, for which Neferata was grateful. The heat of it had aroused her thirst the way sea-water will seem like the finest wine to a marooned sailor, despite knowing the danger. True, there was no evidence save Naaima’s assertions that his blood would sicken them, but Neferata didn’t feel like taking the chance.

The dwarf glared at her suspiciously and spat a stream of crude syllables. Neferata shook her head. He frowned, and then said, ‘Strigoi?’

‘What’s a Strigoi?’ Khaled said. He had built the fire, more for appearances’ sake than anything else. It wouldn’t do to let their guest know the true nature of his rescuers, not while they needed him alive. Khaled spoke in Arabyan, as was his custom, and the dwarf blinked and replied in the same tongue.

‘You’re a long way from the desert, manling,’ he growled, squinting at Khaled.

‘You know our tongue?’ Khaled said, surprised.

‘I’ve been to the caliphates, and a beardling could pick up your speech in a few hours,’ the dwarf said and sat up with a pain-filled groan. The smell of fresh blood suddenly filled Neferata’s nose and she grunted. The dwarf looked at her. ‘You’re not Strigoi, then? You have that look…’

‘Look?’ Neferata said.

The dwarf ignored her question. ‘I’m the only survivor, then?’ he said, his voice turning harsh.

Neferata nodded. ‘Thanks to our intervention,’ she said.

The dwarf was silent for a moment. Then, with a grunt, he said, ‘Then I owe you a debt. I am Razek Silverfoot.’

‘And I am Neferata,’ Neferata said, inclining her head. She motioned to the others. ‘And these are my companions. We are heading north.’

‘To Mourkain, is it?’ Razek said. He slumped back. ‘Have to be. It’s the only place worth going out here,’ he added, answering his own question.

‘Mourkain,’ Neferata said, letting the word roll across her tongue. Mourkain was a place. ‘Yes, we are going to Mourkain,’ she added, ignoring the looks her followers gave her. She knew that they could not see the glare of the black sun and even if they had, they would not understand it. They had followed her into the mountains because to do otherwise was to die on the spears of dead men, or because they felt loyalty to her. Her eyes met Naaima’s, and she nodded. Something howled hungrily in the darkness. Razek’s hands flexed, as if itching to hold a weapon. ‘Beasts,’ he grunted weakly.

‘But far enough away to be harmless,’ Neferata said. ‘Are you hungry?’ She snapped her fingers and Anmar trotted towards them, holding a steaming skewer of charred meat.

Razek eyed the girl with something like surprise and took the meat, nodding in gratitude. ‘Nothing to drink, by chance, is there?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Water, I’m afraid,’ Neferata said. She crooked her fingers and Stregga sauntered over, holding a helmet full of melted snow. The dwarf frowned at the improvised cup. A muscle in his jaw jumped. It was a movement so slight that a human would have missed it, and Neferata knew at once that they had made a mistake. She rose and slapped the helmet out of Stregga’s hands. ‘Fool,’ she snapped.

Stregga recoiled, stunned. ‘Bring him a water-skin,’ Neferata continued, her eyes narrowed. Stregga hesitated, and then nodded. She would empty one of theirs of blood and fill it with melted snow. It was a sacrifice, but a necessary one.

Razek watched her as he chewed the meat thoughtfully and then softly spat it out. ‘I don’t want to know what that was, do I?’ he said, after wiping his mouth.

Neferata chuckled. ‘No, likely not,’ she said.

Razek caught the edge of the fallen helmet and picked it up awkwardly, his hands trembling with fatigue. ‘This was my cousin’s.’

Neferata hesitated. Several homilies swept across her mind’s eye, pious sayings of comfort and kindness. But she also knew that they wouldn’t be accepted by the dour, proud creature sitting before her. What could she say, then? What words would put him at ease? ‘He died well,’ she said finally. ‘They all died well.’ Then, ‘They will not be forgotten.’

‘No, they won’t be.’ Razek tried to push himself back up, but he immediately slumped back with a groan, the helmet slipping from his hands. ‘I don’t think I’ll be so lucky,’ he hissed, eyes squeezed shut. He gripped his chest and his breath slid through his teeth in whistling gasps. ‘Feel like troll-leavings.’

Neferata leaned over him. ‘You were badly hurt. The quicker we get you to shelter, the quicker you’ll start to mend. Mourkain,’ she pressed. ‘Where is it?’

Razek looked at her, and the words dropped out of his lips before he realised that he was saying them. ‘North. There’s a pass, just over the next rise. It leads to Mourkain,’ he said. She gazed into his eyes and felt the jagged edge of his will brush against hers. It felt less like the mind of a man than she had expected. As she pressed her thoughts down on his, she felt like water cascading into the crevices of a mountain. Eventually she would wear him down, but it would take more time than she was comfortable with. His current state helped, the pain of his wounds widening the cracks in his determination.

‘Why were you going?’ she said.

‘I–’ Dwarf stubbornness asserted itself. He shook his head. ‘Dwarf business, eh?’ he grunted. ‘No offence, but it’s not manling business.’

‘Of course,’ she said. Neferata stroked his brow and leaned him back. If her strength surprised him, Razek gave no indication. His eyes fluttered in his head, and she said, ‘Sleep now. We will keep you safe, Razek Silverfoot. Sleep…’ He resisted at first, stubbornly, but then he collapsed back, his eyes closing as pain and exhaustion dragged him under.

As the dwarf passed into unconsciousness, Neferata stood and wiped her hand across her furs. ‘North then,’ she said, looking at the others.

‘And now that we know, what of him?’ Khaled said. He smiled cruelly. ‘A bit of sport, perhaps…’

‘No,’ Naaima said sharply.

Khaled looked at her and sneered. ‘Why? He’s no good to drink from according to you and he’s slowing us down!’

‘Quiet, Khaled. She is correct,’ Neferata said, making a chopping gesture. ‘We need him alive for now. We are in strange territory, and it would serve us well to have a guide, albeit an unwitting one.’

‘But–’ Khaled began.

‘She said no,’ Naaima snarled, and Khaled replied in kind, baring his fangs.

‘I want to hunt,’ he hissed.

‘Do you?’ Neferata said, the calm tone belying the fury that swept through her. ‘Have you learned nothing from our troubles in Bel Aliad?’ she continued, letting a snarl creep into her words. Khaled hesitated, his next words dying on his lips.

‘It wasn’t his fault!’ Anmar protested, rising to her brother’s defence. Neferata’s gaze swung to her and Anmar stutteringly added, ‘M-my lady.’ She and Khaled were more alike than simply in appearance. Both were slaves to impatience and impetuousness, though Anmar was usually self-aware enough to recognise it. Regardless, it did not stop her from leaping to her brother’s defence now.

Neferata felt a moment’s sympathy. Then her sudden backhand caught the other vampire across the jaw and threw her to the snow. ‘Must I discipline you as well as your brother?’ Neferata said.

Anmar cowered, covering her head with trembling hands. Neferata turned away, her fangs snapping in frustration, and her followers fell back. Anger radiated off her at the best of times, like the warning of a storm. Now, a rumble of thunder slipped through her mask, striking all of them to their very cores. She fostered informality among her followers, and allowed them the freedom of initiative. Every so often they forgot that she was a queen. On those occasions they needed to be reminded, and forcefully. Examples were best taken to heart when they were inflicted suddenly and swiftly.

‘But it was his fault, little leopard,’ Neferata purred, looking at Anmar, who crawled away from her. Khaled tried to retreat, but she moved too quickly, and between one eye-blink and the next, her fingers gripped his chin. She leaned close. ‘It was your fault, wasn’t it, Khaled? I warned you, didn’t I?’ she said gently. Then, more harshly, ‘Didn’t I?’ She shook him and his heels scraped the snow as he was jerked several inches into the air. ‘But you didn’t listen, did you?’

She flung him to the ground with a snarl. Bones snapped as he struck the ground, and he rolled onto his stomach, groaning as they re-knit. Neferata placed one sandalled foot to the back of his head and drove his face deep into the snow. ‘I will not be questioned,’ she said mildly, looking at each of them in turn. She released Khaled.

He spat snow from his mouth as he rose onto his hands and knees. Neferata guided him to his feet and shoved him towards his sister. Then she turned towards Naaima. ‘Those packs we salvaged. Do we still have them?’

‘Yes,’ Naaima said. They had taken the packs from the dwarfs at Neferata’s urging, though only Naaima had an inkling of why she would want them. ‘There are papers. Ledgers, perhaps. My people know the dawi as great record keepers.’

‘Perhaps,’ Neferata said, rifling through the packs. Naaima recognised the look on her mistress’s face.

‘What is it?’ she said softly, so the others would not hear.

‘We did not run across them by accident,’ Neferata said. ‘They were going in the same direction we were.’

‘I thought we didn’t know where we were going,’ Naaima said, teasing gently. She was the only one who dared do so, especially so soon after one of Neferata’s ‘lessons’. Naaima had known her mistress in life, and had guided her through the doors of death and undeath alike. She had seen Neferata at her worst and at her best. She had endured blows and curses and caresses and kisses. Neferata looked askance at her, wondering why Naaima had returned to Lahmia on the eve of its destruction, and why she had stayed since. She had never dared ask.

‘No, we simply didn’t know what it was called,’ Neferata said, turning her attentions back to the matter at hand.

‘Mourkain,’ Naaima said.

‘Mourkain,’ Neferata said, smiling sharply. She held up a fistful of papers. ‘You know the look of official documents as well as I, Naaima. These were no unlucky travellers. No, they had purpose.’ She cast a lingering, contemplative look at the unconscious dwarf. Then she looked up. ‘Night is fading. We must continue on. Let us go. Khaled, see to our new friend,’ she said, gesturing for Khaled to grab Razek’s travois. He made as if to protest, but Anmar’s hand on his arm caused him to hold his tongue. Neferata nodded in satisfaction.

Perhaps they could be taught, after all.

Then the vampires were in motion, pelting headlong through the night, outrunning the sun. They travelled by night and rested by day. Someone was always awake to tend to Razek, but the dwarf slept through even the most difficult of travails.

Neferata knew now what the black sun signified, but the knowledge gave her no comfort. What awaited her in Mourkain? She had no answers. Indeed, it only raised more questions. The sun seemed to grow darker every time she looked at it, drawing the shadows of the night into its corona.

It was hungry.

She knew hunger when she saw it, even if the thing had neither mouth nor shape. A vast black all-consuming hunger crouched somewhere in the mountains, waiting for her to enter its maw. She had been a priestess as well as a queen in life, and she knew what portents were. Despite the misgivings, she did not turn around. And if the others had any worries of their own, they did not share them.

Granted, the sun wasn’t the only thing that was hungry. More than once she caught Khaled staring thirstily at Razek’s unconscious form. The beast-blood had turned rank quickly. Even Neferata felt a pang. And the beasts were certainly hungry.

The creatures they had killed had only been the scouts of a much larger herd. That herd was now in pursuit. Their cries were carried on the cold wind, and seemed to echo from every rock and tree. The snow began to fall again as they travelled. The vampires felt nothing, and even wounded, Razek seemed nearly as hardy. Nonetheless, they made sure to set small fires when they stopped to keep the dwarf warm. Razek rarely stirred. There were supplies in the packs they had salvaged, and when he needed to eat, he could.

By the fourth night, the distant howls of the beasts, ever-present, had caught up with them.

They ran on, the howls of their pursuers snapping at their heels. ‘Why do we run?’ Stregga barked, limbs pumping as she pushed herself through the knee-high snow. ‘We’ll butcher them as easily as the others, surely…’

‘There are more of them,’ Rasha said. ‘Listen to the howls.’

‘More to kill is all,’ Stregga said, grinning.

‘Feel free to stay behind,’ Naaima snapped. She looked at Neferata. ‘They will catch us,’ she said. Neferata snarled in consternation. The beasts had tracked them, or, more likely, the dwarf.

They could leave him and keep moving. But Neferata knew that they would need him, and alive for preference. She couldn’t say why, exactly, but she knew enough to trust her instincts when it came to such things.

Besides which, they needed blood, fresh blood. And the only palatable supply was charging towards them. She unsheathed her sword. ‘We fight,’ she said. ‘Kill them all, and drain them dry.’

‘Yesss,’ Khaled said. The others echoed him. In the snow and shadows, they looked monstrous. Inhuman lust had burned away all pretence of humanity now, and only the blood-hunger remained.

Another howl rippled through the dusk and the harsh stink of the hunting horrors followed it. Something big crashed through the trees, its footsteps causing the ground to tremble. A moment later the trees immediately behind them disintegrated as a massive shape crashed through the curtain of flying wood and falling snow, bellowing. It was as big as four men and had the head of a deformed bull. Teeth like knives snapped together in a spray of froth and foam as the creature pursued them like an ambulatory avalanche.

‘Ha!’ Khaled crowed. He stopped and slewed around, his sword cutting across the beast’s muzzle. It did not stop its charge, but instead crashed into him, catching him between its great curling horns. Khaled cried out as he was lifted off his feet and tossed into the monster’s wake. It roared again and made to draw the great, primitive blade stuffed through the loop of its ratty loincloth.

Neferata struck out, her sword sinking to the hilt in the flesh of its forearm. It shrieked and reached for her with its good hand. She danced back and the claws closed on empty air. The others had joined the fray by then, circling the beast and striking at it like wolves bringing down a stag. Their swords left ragged bloody wounds on its thick, porous flesh and it grunted and howled, furiously lashing out at them.

Khaled had got to his feet and met the first of the creatures that had followed the big one through the trees. The goat-headed abomination chopped at him with a stone axe. Khaled ducked and weaved around its blows, toying with it for a few moments. Then, bored, he circled it too quickly for it to follow, grabbed one of its horns and kicked it in the small of the back, snapping its neck and spine with one jerk. More creatures boiled out of the dark trees and howling snow like ants. Several loped towards the dwarf, who lay unconscious and unawares on his litter.

‘Khaled, Anmar, keep him alive,’ Neferata said, avoiding an awkward blow from the dying giant. She stepped past it, leaving it to Naaima and the others.

‘Do as she says,’ Khaled said to his sister. He lunged after Neferata, sword flashing through a hairy throat. Anmar made to call out to him, but she was soon too busy defending the dwarf to make any sound save an enraged snarl as her thin blade lopped off the crooked limbs that reached for her.

Neferata prowled among the monsters, letting her bloodlust have free rein and leaving bodies in her wake. There were dozens of the beasts, and she wondered where they had all come from. Had they inadvertently stumbled into the creatures’ territory? Perhaps it was simply hunger. They all had the starveling look, with hairy hides shrunk tight to malformed bones.

‘Look to your side, my lady,’ Khaled said, sliding past her and bisecting a beast with a single graceful twist of his blade. Neferata glared at him.

‘I told you to defend the dwarf!’ she hissed.

Khaled didn’t meet her eyes. He caught a heavy blow on his blade, turned it aside and grunted, shoving his opponent back. The creatures were stronger than men, and starvation had driven them to a frenzy that made them stronger still.

Neferata stretched past him, pinning the creature to a tree. ‘Go back, fool,’ she said. ‘I need that stunted creature alive.’

‘But–’ Khaled began.

Before Neferata could reply, an arrow took a nearby beast in the neck, spinning it around. Hooves thumped on the snow. More arrows hissed between the trees. Neferata caught the sharp whiff of oil and leather and horse-sweat, and beneath that, the tang of blood rushing and pulsing in strong veins as she spun around a wailing beast, driving her sword up through its back. Still moving, she chopped an arrow from the air. She slid to a halt in a cloud of snow, nostrils flaring. Her eyes sank to slits and she tasted the air, her hunger stirring anew. It was not beast blood she smelled – this was human!

‘Is that what I think it is?’ Khaled whispered. His face was weasel-thin with feral hunger. His fangs splayed like the thorns of a rose.

‘Back to the others,’ Neferata snapped, struggling to contain her own sudden surge of ravenous need. The shapes of a score of riders became visible, weaving through the trees in a sure-footed gallop. The horses were smaller and hairier than those she had ridden in Araby and stocky by comparison, more like ponies than true horses. The men were equally stocky, with broad shoulders and wide jaws. Their hair was greased and bound in scalplocks, much like those worn by the warriors of Nehekhara. Their gear was rough and utilitarian – they wore furs over banded leather cuirasses and each man had a wide-bladed sword on his hip. Most of them had short bows in their hands and these buzzed like hornets as the men, knees tight on their mounts’ barrel chests, fired as they rode with practised swiftness.

They gave brutal yells as they rode through the mass of beastmen, leaving trampled bodies in their wake. Neferata and Khaled retreated, leaving the beasts to the newcomers. Whoever they were, they were welcome to the creatures.

‘If the dwarf is dead, Khaled, I will make you wish that you had never accepted my gift,’ Neferata said.

‘He’ll only be dead if my sister is as well,’ Khaled said tightly. Neferata looked at him. Vampires did not feel emotion as humans did, but certain bonds could not be broken, even by death and what followed. She thought briefly of Naaima, and then confronted the possibility of Anmar’s death. Khaled was not the only one who would miss the girl.

Neferata moved more quickly, outpacing Khaled. She burst back to where she had left the others. A small surge of relief filled her as she saw Anmar standing amidst a number of contorted bodies. The girl was covered in blood, and she used her tongue to clean thick ropes of it from her blade.

‘Greedy,’ Khaled murmured. His relief was evident.

Beastmen lay everywhere and their corpses fouled the crisp purity of the snow and the air alike. ‘I smell horses,’ Naaima said, stepping over the body of the bull-headed giant. She looked at Neferata and sheathed her sword.

‘We have guests to dinner,’ Khaled said, striding towards his sister.

‘Horsemen,’ Neferata said. ‘More than a dozen of them,’ she added.

‘Men, as in humans,’ Stregga said, glancing at Rasha, who inhaled the air, her eyes mere slits. ‘As in something other than the nasty juices of these hairy sacks,’ the Sartosan went on, kicking one of the bodies.

‘No,’ Neferata said, slicing her sword through the air.

Stregga gave her a mutinous look, but held her tongue. The others hid their feelings better, even Khaled. Neferata smiled slightly and sheathed her blade. Horsemen meant civilisation. And Razek had said that the only civilisation nearby was Mourkain. She was close now. She could feel the heat of the dead black sun on her skin, but she didn’t turn to see if it had risen.

Horses snorted. Snow crunched beneath heavy hooves. Neferata stepped towards the trees, her hands held away from her sides. Horses eased through the trees, the wary eyes of the riders taking her and her followers in. A voice barked what sounded like a command.

And the command was in Nehekharan.

Not true Nehekharan, but a debased cousin, a garbled brute-tongue that perhaps shared an ancient root with the language of home. Neferata hissed in satisfaction. It had been more than a century since Nehekhara had truly become a land of the dead. Had some of her people managed to escape the Great Dying?

Was that what this Mourkain was? Some last remnant of her people? Perhaps that was why she was being drawn there. The thought was a heady one: a new kingdom to rule, a new people to mould once more into a great empire.

A rider edged out of the trees. He was a big man, bigger than the others and even paler. His skin was the colour of a fish’s belly and unlike the others he wore no furs, only a cuirass of boiled leather and brass discs, and his muscular arms were bare to the cold. Those arms were covered in looping scars, and a greased scalplock coiled around his neck. A wide, spade-shaped beard flared out from a jutting jaw. There was no light in him, no warmth.

‘Neferata–’ Naaima began.

‘I know,’ Neferata said. He was as dead and as cold as she was, though he was not like her. There was a grave-mould stink to him that offended her nose and she hissed as the stench invaded her nostrils.

The rider was a vampire. And as they recognised him for what he was, he recognised them. Neferata’s nostrils flared and a glint of recognition sparked somewhere deep in her head. The smell of the warrior was familiar, though she had never seen him before. ‘Well… what are you, eh?’ she said loudly.

‘Vorag,’ the warrior barked. ‘Vorag Bloodytooth, witch,’ he continued in his crudely accented Nehekharan. ‘Champion of Strigos,’ he bellowed, thumping his chest with a fist.

Neferata blinked. She asked, ‘Strigos – not Mourkain?’

Vorag cocked his head. He glanced towards the litter and Razek, his eyes narrowing. He seemed to recognise the dwarf. ‘Who are you to speak of Mourkain? You are a barbarian.’ He gestured to her furs.

Neferata laughed. ‘No, I’m no barbarian.’

Vorag’s face tightened. Here is one who doesn’t like the sound of laughter, especially when it’s directed at him, Neferata thought. ‘Then what are you?’ he barked.

‘A question I might put to you as well,’ she said.

Vorag grunted and slid off his horse. He stalked towards them, looking them over. ‘I told you. I am champion of Strigos. These lands are mine, given me by right of battle, as a gift. These beasts are mine to hunt and kill.’ He snapped his teeth together on the last word. Almost casually, he grabbed the limp arm of one of the dead creatures and wrenched it from the socket. He upended the shoulder stump over his mouth and greedily gulped the sluggish flow of brackish blood. He seemed to enjoy it. Neferata lowered her opinion of him accordingly.

His men, however, interested her more than their disgusting master. He stood in full view of them, openly feeding. Either they were so barbaric as to not be particularly squeamish or they knew full well what Vorag was. The latter suggested interesting times ahead. In Lahmia, they had hidden their secret, though not, in the end, well. But out here, with no civilised allies to placate, there was no need.

Finished with the stump, Vorag tossed it aside and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I have answered your question, woman. Now answer mine – what are you?’

‘A queen,’ Neferata said.

Vorag snorted. ‘There are queens aplenty in the wild lands. Every chieftain’s woman is a queen, to hear her tell it,’ he said. ‘And that’s not what I meant. Whose blood-doxy are you? Are you Strezyk’s maybe, or that fool Gashnag’s? Who do you belong to?’

Neferata darted forwards. Her face was inches from Vorag’s before his sword could as much as twitch. ‘I am no man’s woman,’ she said. ‘I am Neferata of Lahmia, Vorag Bloodytooth. I am queen of our kind, little blood-drinker. If you bow to me, I will forgive this insult and I will not make your bones into combs for my hair.’

Vorag’s eyes widened in shock, either at her speed or at her threat, and he inadvertently stepped back. A moment later, he roared and swung his sword up over his head.