Neferata

SIX




The City of Bel Aliad

(–1151 Imperial Reckoning)

‘Beautiful,’ Khaled al Muntasir breathed, stroking the surface of the ornate sarcophagus that leaned at an angle against the wall.

Inside, Neferata raged silently at the gloating tone in his voice. She yearned to split the iron body of the sarcophagus and strip the meat from his face a piece at a time. But such was not to be, not while the shaft of broken lance remained in her chest. The sword had apparently been too dangerous to leave in her, and someone had replaced one with the other. And not just any shard of wood, but one treated with strange unguents and ointments, so that its very touch leached the strength from her and rendered her immobile. Now she stood in darkness, a prisoner of her own body, unable to even seek respite in oblivion or madness. And all thanks to her once-champion, Abhorash.

She remembered his eyes, watching her die. For that was what this was – a living death. Why had he done it? He had not visited her afterwards. Indeed, from what little she had gleaned from her captor, Abhorash had departed as mysteriously as he had arrived, wandering to the coast with his coterie. He had been in Bel Aliad only long enough to help train their Kontoi.

W’soran, Ushoran, Abhorash… The names hissed through her mind like spilling sand. They had all betrayed her, and for what? Spite?

She would show them spite.

But first, she had to escape.

Even locked in the darkness like this, she could feel the faint touch of Naaima’s mind. Her handmaiden prowled through the dark places of Bel Aliad even now, searching for her. Loyal Naaima, if she could but call out to her–

Light stabbed her eyes as the lid of the sarcophagus was shifted. Khaled stared at her, his dark eyes wide. He licked his lips. He reached out a trembling hand, and then yanked it back. Beyond him, she saw his chamber; it was strewn with mystical-looking bric-a-brac, preserved monkey’s paws and shrunken heads. There were tiny ushabti standing at attention in silk-lined boxes and strange, formless shapes squirming in glass jars. Khaled was not only a warrior, it seemed; he was also something of a scholar. ‘I know you can hear me, witch,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Lord Abhorash said you would be able to, at any rate. He said that you cannot die. That you are immortal and ageless and evil.’

Evil! Neferata snarled in her head. How dare that self-righteous fool call her evil! She would take great pleasure in hunting her former champion down and flaying him from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. She would wear his treacherous skin as a cloak and make combs of his bones!

Khaled blinked and stepped back. ‘Yes… I see the hate in your eyes, witch. The Sand Snake, that was what those dogs of the desert called you. I wonder why you were squatting with savages in the wilderness. Could you tell me, if I jostled that stake of wood, ever so slightly? If I nudged it from your heart, just by the length of a fingertip, would you share your secrets with me, Sand Snake?’

Neferata watched him, unable to do anything else. Khaled chuckled. ‘Or would you kill me? Yes. You would, wouldn’t you? You’d butcher me like a goat. Sleep now, Sand Snake. We will talk more, later.’ He closed the lid, and she was once more left in darkness.

But she didn’t rage. She had seen something in Khaled’s eyes. A greed that she recognised easily enough; he wanted something. Something she possessed. In the darkness and the silence, she began to plan…

The City of Mourkain

(–750 Imperial Reckoning)

Steam rose off the stones scattered across the bronze grill of the oven set into the far wall of the bana as Naaima poured a dipperful of water across them. The rocks were heated by a rack of red-hot coals which were occasionally stirred by whoever was closest. A series of long bronze pipes carried the heat from the oven into the water of the communal bath, heating it to a temperature that would have boiled a mortal alive. The vampires didn’t notice. For them it might as well have been an icy pond.

Neferata sighed as steam filled the bathhouse, drawing forth sweat and the smells buried in the wooden planks that made up the roof. The bronze plates set into the stone walls reflected the heat back at the women soaking in the bath. The Strigoi bana were, for all intents and purposes, overlarge ovens, lacking the graceful function of similar structures in Sartosa or Araby. The art of the bathhouse was yet to infiltrate these savage climes, Neferata mused. Yet another thing she would be forced to remedy in the coming years. Still, for the moment, the bathhouse had its uses.

Vampires, unlike men, neither sweated nor secreted the oils that clung like pernicious perfume to the skin of the living. That did not mean, however, that they could not stink just as badly as any unwashed peasant. The odour of old blood never quite went away. But the scalding baths, followed by a splash from a bucket of perfumed water, hid the predator’s odour quite well.

The bana were sacrosanct in Strigoi society. They were places where one could be at ease. It was not unusual for violence to occur in one, but it was frowned upon. It was also one of the few places that Ushoran’s spies could not follow her.

Neferata settled in the water, letting it envelop her. Ushoran’s spy apparatus was like an onion; the more layers she stripped and tossed aside, the more there seemed to be. Then there was W’soran, who had his own methods of spying. Not to mention that every Strigoi ajal and agal had at least one spy in their retinue. Most of those she had co-opted, but there was always another somewhere.

But not here, and that was why they had come.

‘You should have seen the look on that greenskin shaman’s face,’ Stregga chortled. Her palm came down, slapping the still, steaming waters of the bath. ‘Eyes bulging and tongue waggling as Rasha crushed his throat.’ She gave a bark of laughter. She and Rasha had just returned from a routine expedition into the lands to the east, where the great orc migrations originated.

‘Tasted foul, that one,’ Rasha muttered, leaning back against the edge of the communal bath. ‘Their blood tastes of mould and mushrooms.’

‘We all make sacrifices, my sisters,’ Neferata said.

‘Some more than others,’ Naaima added, drawing the bone comb through Neferata’s hair. Neferata ignored the comment.

‘Continue, please,’ she said, gesturing languidly.

‘You were right, my lady,’ Rasha said. ‘They thought it was an omen, a leopard killing their shaman like that. Uzzer’s lot are in control of the tribe now, and they’re moving east, towards us. The timagals in that region are already squawking for help. The orcs will press them hard over the winter.’

‘Good,’ Neferata said, tracing circles in the surface of the water. The greenskins were pawns of prophecy and omen, at the beck and call of their feather- and bead-bedecked shamans. And the shamans took every leopard-mauling or giant-bat attack as an omen to wage war. It was a simple enough matter to stir them up. ‘We’ll see to the defences in the region. Perhaps Vorag…?’ She glanced at Stregga, who made a face.

‘Aye, he wants to fight, that one.’ The blonde vampire sank down until the water brushed her chin. ‘He’s still upset that Ushoran banished him from court.’ She cocked an eye at her mistress. ‘A bit harsh, wasn’t that, my lady?’

‘I need the Bloodytooth on the frontier. Not at court,’ Neferata said mildly. ‘And I need him upset.’ The Court of Strigos was a snake-pit; the nobles strove in a never-ending game of one-upmanship beneath Ushoran’s watchful gaze. Only the most cunning and treacherous survived. Vorag would have been staked in his bed had it not been for Neferata’s careful shepherding of him. And she had done the latter for one reason only – Vorag’s influence among the hereditary nobles and military commanders was great and rivalled only by the acclaim the common herd gave to Abhorash.

It had been easy enough to get the former champion temporarily exiled. Ushoran’s disfavour was easy enough to garner, and Vorag had begun making himself a nuisance; if it had gone on, Ushoran would have had Abhorash end Vorag’s troublemaking permanently. But exiled, he was safe from Abhorash’s sword and he would serve an invaluable purpose.

Through Vorag, she had begun to disseminate the first faint stirrings of resentment among the Strigoi nobility who were not tied to Ushoran’s apron strings. The Strigoi were not unused to long-lived rulers, but Kadon had been a sorcerer. Ushoran was not. But he was seemingly immortal, and though many members of his inner circle knew what he was, not all of them had truly understood what an immortal king meant.

Neferata could have told them, had they asked. Even Kadon had had the good grace to step back from direct rule eventually. The stagnation was already creeping in. Men who had been turned when the Strigoi were horse-raiders with grandiose dreams of empire now ruled said empire, but could not shake the petty perspectives of those far-gone times.

And as the Strigoi people advanced, their hidebound, atavistic nobility became ever more out of step. The world moved on, no matter how much creatures like Ushoran and – yes – even herself at times wished it wouldn’t.

‘Besides, he’ll enjoy fighting the orcs for a few years. He seems to enjoy the taste, at any rate.’ She looked at Anmar. ‘On to other matters… Tell me of the dawi, little leopard.’

‘They left this morning, my lady,’ Anmar said.

‘You are certain?’

‘I followed them myself,’ Anmar said.

Neferata sat back and sighed. Razek had been a disappointment, in more ways than one. He was too observant. And he was too determined to discover the source of the gold that formed Strigos’s wealth, and to lay claim to it for his people. The attempts had been made via human mercenaries – thieves and bandits, paid through third parties. All had died, or been paid off, but the attempts had become an annoyance, not to mention distracting. Razek, she was certain, knew that Ushoran was paying the dwarfs in their own gold, stolen by Kadon so long ago. And if he ever found proof, that would be it for the current amicable state of affairs.

Dwarfs were not given to plotting, but Razek seemed to break the mould. A quiet word in Ushoran’s ear had resulted in Razek being recalled to the Silver Pinnacle once the trade between the two peoples had settled into a comfortable rhythm after a few decades. Still, there lingered the suspicion that Razek’s influence was not entirely gone from Mourkain. The dwarf traders and merchants who came by the Silver Road all carried the stamps and seals of King Borri, but she suspected that they had Razek’s gold in their pockets, and that gold went into the hands of yet more thieves and spies. He was more than just Borri’s thane – he was the king of Karaz Bryn’s hearth-warden. He was her opposite number and equally determined to accomplish his goal.

That alone necessitated his eventual death. But not yet, she thought. Razek was a known quantity now, and the dwarfs might yet come in handy, beyond the obvious. Tapping her lip, she glanced at Iona. The red-headed former concubine had flourished since being given the gift of Neferata’s blood-kiss. She had transformed from a starveling wretch into a magnificent creature, her bedraggled looks amplified into feral beauty. ‘And how are the gods, Iona? Are they satisfied with their offerings?’

‘So their priestesses assure me, mistress,’ Iona said, curling a lock of fiery red hair around one pale finger. ‘The sangzye is collected without comment. Our people place little value on blood,’ she added, shrugging. Neferata smiled in satisfaction.

The transplantation of the Nehekharan cults had taken close to thirty years of effort on her part; something to keep her interested during her idle moments. Small temples to Djaf, Phakth and Ptra now occupied the central plaza of Mourkain, and their priestesses had all been gifted with her kiss. Granted, those temples and their practices would be unrecognisable to any inhabitant of the Great Land.

Blood was the holiest of sacrifices, and each god accepted their due in the temples of Mourkain. The sangzye was a tax of blood, levied on the devout; it served to keep the growing population of vampires in check.

‘Ajal Djazk,’ Neferata said. She looked at Rasha, who smiled thinly. Djazk was the latest troublesome nail in need of hammering down: a minor lordling who’d attempted to subvert several of Neferata’s handmaidens through bribery and other, less subtle methods. He was a brute and a slave to his passions. He was not alone in such, but he had made his intentions known in too blatant a fashion.

The memory of what Neferata had done to Strezyk was fading fast, even among those who’d witnessed it. Few of the Strigoi could accept that a woman, vampire or not, was something other than a servant or a concubine. She had made good use of that blind spot. Ushoran used Abhorash for public executions. But it fell to Neferata to eliminate those of Ushoran’s inner circle who grew too free with their blood-kiss or otherwise machinated against him. Few saw it coming, and those who did rarely ran far enough to escape her growing reach.

‘He never returned from his last beast-hunt,’ the other vampire said. ‘The beasts must have killed him. We’ll find his remains strapped to one of their ugly stone idols somewhere, I’d warrant.’ Her eyes glinted with pleasure.

‘Would you,’ Neferata murmured. ‘Good. What of his concubines?’

‘He only had a few who were in any decent shape. Of those, I pulled aside two or three that might be of some use. The others I sent to the temples. The priestesses will find some use for them,’ Rasha said.

‘Excellent,’ Neferata said. The Strigoi nobility were profligate. They turned women, and sometimes men, without regard, like children hoarding toys. When a situation like Djazk’s arose, those creatures were often left without a master. Those whom she could not find a use for, she had killed quietly, and without unnecessary pain. It was not the victims’ fault that creatures like Gashnag had a taste for women and no self-control. Some, however, were only too happy to be of service. These she sent out and away from Mourkain, to be her eyes and ears among the brute tribes of men in the north and west and east.

She cocked her head back, looking up at Naaima, who had set aside the comb and was now tightly braiding her hair. Even now, centuries after the fact, Naaima refused to let any of the others touch Neferata’s hair. Neferata, for her part, saw no reason to complain. ‘W’soran,’ she said.

Naaima frowned. ‘He’s up to something.’

‘And the moon is made of the skull of a god,’ Stregga snorted. ‘Tell us something we don’t know.’

Naaima glanced sourly at the other woman, but continued. ‘Whatever it is, it’s connected to his trips to the pyramid on certain nights. But we can’t get close enough to follow him. Not with his guard dogs.’ W’soran had taken to travelling with a pack of ghouls at his heels. The loping beasts were excellent watchdogs, if one didn’t mind the smell. Clad in their black robes and hoods, they moved through the streets at night, spread out around the old monster like a flock of crows.

‘Keep trying. He and Ushoran are keeping something from me, and I want to know what,’ Neferata said. There had seemed to be no pattern before to W’soran’s comings and goings in regards to the pyramid, but what she had learned from her spies over the years had put paid to that supposition. There was a pattern and a reason for that pattern. A reason she was one step closer to discovering.

A familiar scent stung her nose and she hissed in disgust. ‘Who is watching the door, Naaima?’

‘Layla,’ Naaima said automatically. Neferata grunted. The girl was human. They had a number of human servants, all picked by Naaima, who had a way with the lower orders. ‘Why?’ Naaima said, a moment before she too caught the scent. Her eyes widened.

The door to the bathhouse opened, and grinning figures strode in, boots crunching on the delicate tiles. Neferata caught a glimpse of others outside, crouched over a too-pale shape. The girl had tried to bar their way and paid the price for her loyalty. Neferata kept her face expressionless as Naaima hissed in rage. The others reacted similarly, surging up out of the waters and surrounding her.

‘Well, here we all are. How lovely,’ the Strigoi purred, gazing at them with undisguised lust. He was tall and broad-shouldered and his name was Zandor. There were other Strigoi behind him. They were, like Zandor, minor nobles. Neferata recognised them all as Ushoran’s lapdogs, sniffing at his table scraps, always trying to curry favour where they could.

‘These are the ladies’ baths, Ajal Zandor,’ Neferata said blithely.

‘Do forgive me, Lady Neferata, but I was pining for your beauty,’ Zandor said, leering. The other Strigoi chuckled appreciatively. ‘We would speak with you,’ Zandor added sneeringly.

Neferata sighed. ‘Very well, Naaima, take the others outside.’ Naaima looked at her in horror. Neferata frowned. ‘Go. I’m sure I will be perfectly safe here, with Ajal Zandor and his… companions.’

‘Oh yes,’ Zandor said. ‘Perfectly safe, I assure you.’

Neferata restrained the urge to roll her eyes as her handmaidens left the bathhouse. Zandor, like the unlamented Djazk, was infamous in Mourkain for his ribald exploits. He thought a woman was only good for one thing and Neferata irked him to no end, though she had rarely spoken to him. Zandor sank to his haunches, eyeing her. ‘I’m given to understand that you convinced our mighty hetman to spare that oaf Vorag, after he made such a mess of young Feyz at the Midsummer banquet.’

‘Vorag was exiled,’ Neferata said.

‘He should have been staked out on the slopes,’ one of the other Strigoi growled. He was a handsome creature, dark-haired and thin-featured. He wore gold, and polished brass discs adorned his furs.

‘Hello, Gashnag,’ Neferata said. ‘I wonder, did Vorag demand the same when you took Ergat’s fangs last month?’

Gashnag blanched. Zandor chuckled. ‘It is not the deed, but how it was done, my lady. Vorag is little better than one of those beasts he so enjoys hunting.’ He leaned forwards, his features assuming a predatory cast. ‘Why do you support such a brute, I wonder? Are there benefits to a grateful monster?’

Neferata frowned. ‘You go too far, Zandor.’

‘I apologise,’ Zandor said. ‘I merely wondered why you backed one like the Bloodytooth when there are other, more influential friends to be had.’

Neferata laughed. ‘Do you not have enough friends, Zandor?’

‘None like you, my lady. Hetman Ushoran speaks highly of you,’ Zandor said, stirring the water with his hand. ‘And Khaled as well, though he is, perhaps, biased.’

Neferata was silent for a moment. ‘You were Strezyk’s get, weren’t you, Zandor?’ she said.

Zandor stiffened. ‘And so,’ he said. ‘May a man not expand beyond his horizons?’

‘Not if he is wise,’ Neferata said softly.

Zandor stood. ‘I am sorry that you feel that way. I had hoped to avoid a scene, but obviously you will not heed wisdom.’ He turned. ‘Kurven,’ he said.

The vampire who entered the bathhouse was massive. There was too much beast to this one, Neferata knew. He had let himself slip into the permanent red twilight that creatures like Vorag danced along the edge of. Wide eyes bulged over a quivering, wet spear-blade nose, and a mouthful of fangs surfaced from a bramble-like beard. He was a hairy creature and fairly bursting out of his cuirass. A crooked claw pointed at her. ‘I challenge you,’ he growled, mangling the words into near unintelligibility.

Neferata’s eyes flickered to Zandor, who smirked. Memories were short, even among immortals it seemed. Or, more likely, Kurven was a professional duellist. She noted the trio of necklaces that hung from the brute’s neck, each one heavy with extracted fangs. ‘Ushoran will be unhappy with you, Zandor,’ she said, not moving from the water. ‘I am his left hand.’

‘Then maybe it’s time he got a new one,’ Zandor said. ‘Women should not meddle in politics.’ He looked at Kurven. ‘Kill her. We all saw you challenge her. None here will say it wasn’t fair and by the law.’

Kurven gave a howl that rattled the tiles of the bathhouse, and sprang for her. Neferata sank beneath the water swiftly. The brute landed with a splash, his talons gouging the spot where she had rested. She rose behind him, fangs bared. Kurven spun, eyes blazing.

She ducked under the Strigoi’s swipe and slashed him across the face, eliciting a screech. He was more angry than hurt. Quicker than she expected he lunged and caught her, shoving her beneath the water and driving her into the bottom of the bath. This one knew how to fight, unlike Strezyk. She brought her legs up and drove her feet into his belly.

Kurven released her and reared back. Neferata burst from the water, claws stretching for his hairy throat. The Strigoi were cheering, so certain of the beast’s victory that they did not notice the door to the bathhouse burst open to admit Naaima and the others. With vengeful shrieks, the vampire-women dived onto the Strigoi even as Neferata launched herself at Kurven and buried her fangs in his throat.

Digging her claws into his chest, she whipped her head back, tearing his throat out in a welter of gore. Kurven gagged horribly and sank into the water, trying to hold his ruined throat together. Neferata didn’t let him slip far. She hoisted him up, her talons sunken knuckle deep into the meat of his chest. She gave a shove with one hand, and bone buckled and splintered as she dug out Kurven’s heart. Wrenching the organ loose she stared at it for a moment before she buried her fangs in it, swallowing its final, plaintive beat. She let Kurven sink into the darkening water and climbed out, still holding the heart in one hand.

The fight between her followers and the Strigoi had been quick. Only Zandor and Gashnag had remained to fight, while the others had fled as soon as they realised that Kurven was dead. Gashnag lay groaning on the ground, Stregga’s foot pressed to the back of his skull and his blood dripping from her hands. Naaima was far stronger than a puling creature like Zandor and she had him on his knees, his arms twisted behind his back and his scalplock jerked tight, forcing him to stare up at Neferata as she swayed towards him, trailing Kurven’s blood behind her.

‘Somehow, I think you thought that this was going to go differently, Ajal Zandor,’ Neferata purred, sinking to her haunches. She held up Kurven’s mangled heart and showed it to him. ‘I want you to remember this moment, Zandor. Remember my hand on a Strigoi heart, and I want you to recall that it could just as easily have been yours.’ She clenched her fist, crushing the lump of meat. ‘Let him go.’

‘We should kill him,’ Naaima hissed, leaning close to Zandor.

‘Aye, let’s take his fangs,’ Stregga said.

‘We already have,’ Neferata said, gesturing curtly. ‘Let him up, and Gashnag as well. Let’s not keep these fine ajals from their business, shall we?’

Zandor left, his glare hot with rage and not a little fear. Neferata smiled, satisfied. ‘The memory of Strezyk was getting stale. Now there’s a new memory to dampen the fire in their bellies,’ she said, looking at the others. Only Naaima wasn’t listening. Instead, she was crouched over the girl who’d been guarding the door. Neferata saw at once that the Strigoi had been at her. Some of them saw humans only as cattle. She looked at Rasha and Stregga. ‘Did you see the ones who did this?’

‘I did,’ Rasha growled.

‘Find them and bring me their fangs.’ Neferata looked at Iona and Anmar. ‘Follow Zandor and see where he goes. I want to know who convinced that jackal that he could get away with this.’ The vampires moved quickly, faster than the human eye could follow. Neferata watched them go and then turned back to Naaima. ‘Is she dead?’

‘Not yet.’ Naaima looked mournfully down into the girl’s features. ‘But she will not survive these wounds. Not unless we do something.’ A note of pleading entered her voice.

Neferata looked down at the serving girl, her body marred by great slashes and gouging, sloppy bite-marks. Her blood dripped down Naaima’s arms. Her eyelids fluttered and a quiet moan escaped from her mouth. Something that might have been pity stabbed at Neferata. Pragmatism reared its head, crushing pity beneath its relentless tread.

She looked at Naaima. ‘I have no need of her,’ she said. ‘Not with Djazk’s women.’

‘She was wounded in your service,’ Naaima said, stroking the girl’s brow. A fever-sweat had broken out, and Neferata could smell death congealing in the girl’s wounds. ‘You owe her…’

‘I owe her nothing. She failed, and she has paid for that failure. Besides, of what use would such a creature be to me?’ She knew it was the wrong thing to say even as she said it.

‘You forget who you speak to,’ Naaima said, and her voice was iron. ‘What was I, but a maid? I was a concubine, Neferata. I was a lower possession than a horse or hound. And you found use for me.’

Neferata looked at her handmaiden, eyes narrowing. ‘Are you challenging me?’

‘Yes,’ Naaima said simply. She neither bowed her head nor looked away. Between them, the girl moaned again, piteously.

Nonplussed, Neferata hesitated. She brushed a lock of the girl’s hair out of her face. ‘It is too late. I cannot save her,’ she said.

‘You can.’

Neferata met Naaima’s eyes and the former Queen of Lahmia was the first to look away. ‘What is her name?’ she asked hoarsely.

‘Layla,’ Naaima reminded her. ‘Her father was killed by the orcs. She used to work in the kitchens of Ushoran’s palace. The other girls accused her of putting on airs, and the cook beat her for being disrespectful. She does not know her place, and she does not fear the dark. That is why I took her.’

‘More fool she,’ Neferata said. Tenderly, she took the girl from Naaima and tilted her, so that her head lolled against Neferata’s shoulder. Then, with a sigh, she sank her fangs into the girl’s throat, drinking deeply and stabbing to the root of the girl’s life.

The blood-kiss was a sacred thing. It was a gift from Neferata to her chosen followers. As much as she took, she gave as well. It was a bond, forever linking her to them and vice-versa. Holding the girl, she extended her arm and Naaima took her wrist and forearm and bent her head. Her lips brushed the inside of Neferata’s wrist and then, with a sharp, bright flash of sweet pain, she opened her mistress’s veins. Neferata raised her bloody mouth from Layla’s throat and pressed her wrist to the girl’s slack lips. Her fingers curled as her hand flexed and blood rushed out, black and thick, into the girl’s mouth. ‘Drink, Layla,’ Neferata crooned. ‘Drink, scullery maid, or die.’

‘Drink,’ Naaima said, stroking the girl’s throat with light fingers. ‘Drink,’ they said together, quietly. And Layla coughed and gasped and began to drink. Weakly at first, and then desperately, clutching Neferata’s wrist tightly. She began to shudder and jerk, and a black, noisome fluid began to weep from her wounds as Neferata’s blood began to circulate through her veins.

‘What is happening to her?’ Naaima said, looking horrified. Neferata had no answer for her. Layla jerked and groaned as her skin lost what little colour it had and her hair turned silver. Finally, the girl lay quiet in her arms, almost as if asleep. Neferata could see the cold darkness in the centre of her that marked her as a vampire.

Layla was not the first vampire she had made within the city, nor would she be the last, but nonetheless this time had seemingly awakened something – something which spoke to her out of that darkness, startling her. The voice used no words, but memories. Crashing, slashing images of times long past.

Alcadizzar’s breath, harsh in his lungs, washing over her as they crashed into one another. He was her child, though she had not borne him. He was of her blood. And now he yearned for her end. His dagger pierced her chest, seeking her heart with deadly intent.

She screamed, more from the agony of betrayal, of dreams hammered to dust, than from the pain. But as she crouched, bent over the blade jutting from her chest, Alcadizzar stared at her sadly as the wind wiped him away, one grain of flesh at a time. His eyes were the last to go, pain-ridden orbs that begged, even as they condemned.

A shape that was as black as the spaces between the stars stood in his place, its outline writ in green balefire. A voice that seemed to echo in the marrow of her bones rattled across her ears, speaking deplorable words, and inflicting a nightmare cancer of alien sound on the world. Around her, the sands shifted and slid, revealing spear-points and sword-tips and the curved, flayed-smooth skull caps of the tomb-legions.

A hundred generations rose from the howling sands and began to march on clattering, fleshless feet. Kings and queens and priests and nobles and peasants marched without complaint or identity forever through the darkness, drawn on by the needle-on-bone voice of the black shape.

THEY ARE MINE. NOW AND FOREVER, THEY ARE MINE, it said. EVEN AS YOU ARE MINE, QUEEN OF THE CITY OF THE DAWN. COME TO ME. COME–

‘No!’ Neferata shrieked, clutching at her head. Naaima darted forwards, grabbing Layla as she slid from Neferata’s grip.

‘Neferata, what is it?’ the other woman said.

Neferata’s claws dug into her scalp and black blood rolled down into her face. She turned away from her handmaiden, and fought to control the emotions that raged across her normally serene features. Something tugged and tore at the back of her mind, but with brutal, practised effort, she forced it back and deep.

Blood coated her hands – hers, Layla’s – and it seemed to form the features of a man, proud and arrogant in her cupped palms. The human face rippled and melted, becoming something else entirely. Something that was not human in the least, and it gazed up at her as if looking through a gauzy sheet. A name seemed to swim to the surface of her thoughts, but she could not see it, not clearly, and the unfamiliar syllables died on the base of her tongue before she could even utter a breath. Swiftly she brought her palms together and wiped the blood across her robes.

‘Neferata,’ Naaima said.

‘Nothing,’ Neferata said. ‘It was nothing.’

And in her head, something laughed.