Neferata

SEVEN




The City of Bel Aliad

(–1151 Imperial Reckoning)

In the months that she languished in captivity, Neferata learned much about those gifts that she had wrested from the sinister brew flowing in her veins. While she had always been able to control the minds of others, she now had a more precise control over lesser minds. She amused herself by bringing insects to the sarcophagus. Beetles and worms and spiders now clustered around her in the dark, crawling through her hair and sliding every so often into her mouth, where her fangs closed on them like a trap and extinguished their tiny lives. Each of these provided her with the briefest surge of strength, which was quickly sapped away by the wood piercing her heart.

She needed something larger than spiders and flies. It was a pity that there were no rats. Her flesh had tightened over her bones, becoming dry and hard like leather, and her hair, what she could see of it, had turned a filthy white. A long time ago, such changes might have tormented her. Now, however, she knew that flesh was much like a set of robes, changing to fit circumstance.

Besides bugs, she made the acquaintance of Khaled’s sister, Anmar. She was a pretty girl, still gangly and in the dawn of womanhood. Like her brother, she was a child of the harem, and he doted on her. And she, in turn, looked up to him. Even as Khalida had looked up to her cousin Neferata, before–

The thought brought pain. Neferata shoved the errant memory aside. Khalida was dead, as Naaima never failed to remind her. Dead and entombed for over a century, after refusing the gift Neferata had offered her, the foolish, stupid girl.

But Anmar was more receptive to the whispers of Neferata’s voice. The girl had taken to sneaking into her brother’s secret chambers. Mere curiosity became something else as Neferata’s psychic hooks sank into her mind.

Until, finally…

‘What are you doing in here?’ Khaled roared, grabbing his sister by the arm and wrenching her away from the sarcophagus. If she had been able to, Neferata would have hissed in frustration. The girl had been moments away from opening the sarcophagus and freeing her.

‘I was just looking–’ Anmar began, trying to yank her arm free of her brother’s grip.

‘Don’t!’ Khaled snarled, hurling her against the wall. The girl cried out and Khaled’s rage evaporated. He stared at his hands for a moment, and then rushed to her side. ‘I’m sorry little sister, I did not mean to hurt you,’ he said, helping her to her feet.

Khaled, Neferata whispered.

He froze. He straightened and looked at the sarcophagus, his face pale and sweaty. ‘K-Khaled,’ Anmar began as she reached for her brother. ‘What is it? It’s been speaking to me. What do you have in there?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing…’

Khaaaaled, Neferata purred. The tendrils of her mind unfurled, caressing his. He shuddered.

‘Get out of my head, witch. I’ve told you before, I will not listen to you,’ he said, grinding his fists into his eyes.

‘Khaled, who are you talking to?’ Anmar said. She glanced at the sarcophagus, and went as pale as her brother. ‘Is it… is it her? Is what the maids said true? Did you really… keep her?’

Aaaanmaaar, Neferata hissed, as she felt the girl’s gaze fall on the sarcophagus.

‘Who is that?’ Anmar said, looking to her brother for reassurance. ‘What is in that box, Khaled?’

‘Just an old dead thing,’ Khaled snapped. ‘It is of no consequence.’

No consequence, am I? Neferata said, vaguely amused. Then why do you stink of fear, my fierce Kontoi?

‘Quiet,’ Khaled shouted.

Perhaps it is because you fear yourself, and not this old dead thing, Neferata said. You fear your desires, Khaled… What do you want, my love? I will give it to you. All you have to do is–

‘I said be quiet!’ Khaled shrieked. He wrenched the lid open and glared at her. She could see herself reflected in his eyes, a mummified thing, covered with crawling insects, withered talons clutching the splintered shaft of wood that jutted from her heart. He fell back, gagging. Her jaws twitched, crunching a centipede between them. Anmar screamed.

Quiet, girl, Neferata hissed. Anmar’s jaw slammed shut and her hands flew to her mouth.

‘Leave her be, hag!’ Khaled snarled. He grabbed the end of the stake and jammed it deeper into her. Neferata’s withered frame shuddered. Her head slumped to the side and her staring eyes caught his, freezing him in place.

Why would I do that, Khaled? she said. Why would I do that when I am so thirsty?

Khaled pulled himself away from her. ‘No!’

So thirsty, Neferata said, not letting him break eye contact with her. Her will crashed down on him like a black wave. For weeks, her mind had wormed its way into his, even as it had Anmar’s. He had come incessantly to gloat over her, to speak of his dreams and plans and desires.

He wanted to be caliph, did young Khaled. But he was the son of a concubine and thus not in line for the throne, and besides, there were a dozen brothers ahead of him.

But I can change all of that, Khaled, she said, and he leaned close. You know I can. Abhorash told you, didn’t he? He told you what I am and what my kiss can give you, she continued. Her thoughts became his thoughts, and trapped his mind in a fog of red.

‘Khaled,’ Anmar quavered, reaching for him. ‘Please Khaled, close it…’

Free me, Neferata said. Free me!

‘Khaled…’

Khaled’s fingers tightened on the wood. Then, with a convulsive jerk, he ripped it free of her heart. Neferata sucked in a lungful of dry air and emitted a shriek, her long unused vocal cords flexing painfully. But mingled with the pain was the raw pleasure of life renewed. Life, so long denied her, flowed through her dry veins and she stretched, feeling the air and listening to the sound of her prey’s hearts as their rhythm sped up. The sweet smell of fear filled her nostrils and she hissed in pleasure.

Khaled stared stupidly at the splinter of wood in his hand, then up at Neferata. Her eyes blazed with a hunger long denied. ‘Yessss,’ she said.

‘Oh, no,’ Khaled said, stepping back, horror suffusing his features. ‘Anmar, get out of here!’

‘Khaled – what–’ Anmar began fearfully.

‘Run!’ Khaled screamed, lunging for Neferata with the wood. She uncoiled from the sarcophagus, leaping over him and landing between his sister and the door.

‘Too late, my Kontoi,’ Neferata rasped, claws flexing. She caught Anmar as the girl backpedalled. ‘Too late…’ Her fangs sank into the girl’s neck as savagely as those of a starving jackal. She worried the girl’s throat, tearing flesh and cracking bone, her tongue stabbing hungrily into the wound.

Khaled howled with loathing as he smashed the wooden spike into her shoulder. She snarled, dropping the half-dead girl, and batted his improvised weapon from his grip. Then, with sinister tenderness, she took his face in her hands and kissed him, smearing his mouth with his sister’s blood. He grabbed ineffectually at her wrists as she pulled him close.

‘Do not struggle, my love,’ she purred. ‘Soon you shall have all that you desire. This, I promise…’

The City of Mourkain

(–600 Imperial Reckoning)

The sun had been blotted out by thick clouds that spread like oil across the sky, as well as the surging, wheeling flocks of carrion birds that circled overhead waiting for the day’s reaping to be done. Unfortunately, Neferata had no time to admire the graceful curve of the birds’ flight.

The orc crested the palisade, venting a full-throated bellow of berserk murder-lust as it took off a Strigoi’s head with its crude axe. Neferata wove around the tumbling body and impaled the orc on her blade, causing it to stiffen and scream. She jerked her sword free in a crescent of blood and spun, lopping off its head as she came back around.

Even as its twitching carcass tumbled to the palisade ramp, more of them were pushing to fill the gap. Daubed in brutal, blue tattoos and war-paint and animal skins, they came at her in a rush. Their minds were too dull to enrapture with her dark skills, and she settled for dealing out quicksilver death. Stepping over the bodies, she saw that the others were faring similarly well.

Khaled, clad in the armour of one of Ushoran’s guard, cut and slashed in the wedge of metal and flesh that defended the master of Mourkain as he struggled with one of the warlords of the green horde that crashed like an ocean tide against his walls. Ushoran was wearing armour himself, eschewing his more bestial habits in order to play the hero for his people.

Like always when he was in public, Ushoran wore the face of a god. Painfully handsome, strongly built, he towered over his guards and at times, he seemed to be protecting them, rather than vice-versa. The orc was a large one, a full head taller than Ushoran. The beast wore the skins of a dozen wolves stretched and stitched over its frame, and carried a length of crudely beaten and sharpened bronze like a sword.

It whipped the sword at Ushoran, seeking to decapitate him. Ushoran stepped back, letting the curved tip of the blade slice past his chin. As the orc staggered, off-balance, he slid close and drove his own sword into the creature’s gut. It howled in agony and dropped its sword, grabbing Ushoran’s head in its paws. Ushoran was slammed down hard enough to crack the palisade, but he showed no sign that the impact had hurt him. He reached up and grabbed the orc’s tusk, jerking its head down. Their skulls connected with an audible crunch, and the orc staggered back, minus its tusk, which Ushoran still clutched.

The vampire sprang to his feet and lunged, jabbing the orc in the throat with its tusk, while simultaneously reaching for the hilt of his sword, still lodged in the orc’s belly. He jerked the sword free and swept it up, chopping the orc’s skull in half, jaw to brow. It toppled from the palisade, knocking a number of other green-skinned savages off in its descent.

He looked at her, his face a mask of blood, and grinned. He was enjoying the fight, she knew. ‘How heroic,’ she murmured, blocking a spear-thrust aimed at her heart. She flung out a hand and tore the orc’s throat out, even as she pivoted and hurled it behind her.

As Neferata turned she saw Abhorash leap from the palisade and chop down through the bull-neck of the giant that had steadily been trying to uproot a section of the palisade for the better part of the last hour. ‘Speaking of heroes,’ she murmured, grabbing an orc by the neck and shaking it hard enough to shatter its bones. She hurled it from the wall with a disgusted grimace as its foul blood splattered across the ornate cuirass she wore. Abhorash had been recalled from the eastern frontier, where he had been dealing with the ogre tribes that infested the hills there, and he had thrown himself into this new war with as much enthusiasm as he ever showed for anything.

He chopped at the giant’s neck as it staggered and fell, his sword rising and falling like a butcher’s knife, and his aquiline face was twisted into an expression of bestial exultation. Abhorash lived for battle. He had a will of iron, until the sky darkened with arrows and the soil ran with blood and then his savagery put even Ushoran’s to shame. She watched the decapitated giant sway on its feet before toppling forwards. It took the bigger ones a long time to realise that they were dead. She could practically hear W’soran’s greedy chuckle now. The giant, even headless, would make excellent labour for the mines.

The giant slumped over the palisade, and Abhorash, ever at the forefront, bounded towards the orcs that swarmed up its bent body like ants. He crashed into the oncoming green wave like a rock set against the tide. An orc burst at the point of impact, Abhorash literally tearing through the creature as if it were of no more bother than a linen curtain. Other orcs were flung aside like gnats. Abhorash grabbed one as it flipped into the air, snatching it by one ankle and wielding it like a living, screaming flail against the others. Only when the creature had been reduced to a bedraggled mess did he toss it aside and continue his rampage.

‘He plays the part well, whatever else he might be,’ Naaima said, snapping an orc’s arm as it swung an axe at her head. Like Neferata, she wore the black and red enamelled armour that Ushoran’s smiths had gifted to them. It was far more ornate than that which they had worn in Nehekhara, being all flaring ridges and sharp edges. ‘And speaking of playing parts, Khaled ably defends Ushoran, I see,’ she added, frowning as she bent the orc backwards over the palisade and broke its back.

‘He is magnificent,’ Anmar said, leaping up to perch on the palisade wall even as she kicked an orc in the skull hard enough to crumple the bone and send it flailing to the rocky slope below.

‘Referring to your brother or Lord Abhorash, little leopard?’ Rasha said as she stabbed a wounded orc as it lunged awkwardly for the other vampire. She hefted the kicking, bawling beast and sent it spinning from the palisade.

‘Both,’ Anmar said simply, craning her head around to look at her blood-sister. ‘Do not say you have not noticed,’ she added, teasingly.

‘Not my type,’ Rasha said, sniffing, leaning on her blade. She brushed a lock of bloody hair out of her sharp face and looked at her mistress. ‘Still, he is useful, in a rather blunt, unimaginative way, eh, my lady?’

‘Sometimes a hammer is the right tool,’ Neferata said. Down below, Abhorash had been joined by his ‘Hand’ – the four companions who had fought beside him since the fall of Lahmia. The four vampires were an aloof lot, bound to their captain by blood and honour. Regardless, they fought for Strigos with a vigour that few could match. Together, the five vampires carved a path through the heart of the orc horde, butchering the savages with abandon.

‘Speaking of hammers,’ Neferata murmured and looked away from the battle, searching for Vorag. The Bloodytooth was not at the forefront, as he would’ve liked. Instead, he and his riders waited behind the palisade. It was Abhorash’s plan, of course. Wait for the orcs to break themselves on the palisade and then let Vorag’s riders harry them as they retreated. It was an effective plan, and sensible, which meant that Vorag saw it as an insult.

She had convinced Ushoran to recall the timagal, despite the fact that Vorag’s own lands were the scene of the harshest fighting. Ushoran even thought it was his idea. Vorag had been forced to leave his hard-won territories to be engulfed beneath the green tide, and Neferata could tell that he was seething even from a distance. And beside him, blonde and bloodthirsty, Stregga was whispering sweet nothings into his ear, calming him and simultaneously enflaming his hatreds even more. Neferata smiled.

She carefully wiped the expression off her face as the thud of armoured boots sounded and Ushoran approached, mopping at the blood on his too-handsome face with a ragged strip of cloth. ‘They’re close to breaking,’ Neferata said.

‘You had doubts?’ Ushoran sneered. Orc blood had collected and dried in the grooves and swooping curves of his armour. ‘They are beasts. We have more trouble with rats in the granaries.’

‘Overconfidence is an attractive trait in a man, but not a ruler,’ Neferata said mildly, resting the flat of her blade across her shoulder.

‘And as always, I bow to your previous experience,’ Ushoran replied blandly. He frowned. ‘I grow tired of this. We should be expanding, not merely holding what we have.’ He kicked petulantly at a green-skinned corpse. ‘I want to do something about this, about them.’ He looked at Neferata. ‘Do something. Earn your keep.’

Neferata raised a delicately plucked eyebrow. ‘I’ll need men and gold, as well.’

‘Yes, fine! Fine,’ Ushoran said, waving a hand. ‘You can have it all. I grow weary of slaughtering these creatures. I need a real war. And prisoners…’ His eyes were unfocused and his gaze drifted towards the black pyramid. ‘Yes,’ he said, shaking himself, ‘prisoners.’

It was only a gentle caress, but Neferata knew that Ushoran was hearing the needle-on-bone voice again, even as she herself sometimes heard it. It spoke to him more often, and she was still unsure as to whether she should be relieved or jealous.

You could be queen again. You could belong to Usirian, and not the jealous moon. Your charnel kingdom would spread like rot through a fruit, and the whole world would sing hymns to your wisdoms and mercies–

Ushoran was looking at her, his eyes glowing like balefire. She blinked and looked away. Whether she was jealous or not, Ushoran certainly was. Why else would he avoid all of her attempts to discuss the presence which had drawn her to Mourkain? He knew that she heard it, even as she knew that he heard it. Abhorash heard it as well, and probably W’soran, though she hadn’t cared enough to inquire. It was a mystery, and Neferata hated mysteries. Ushoran had the key, and one way or another she intended to get it out of him.

Now wasn’t the time to bring that argument up again, however. ‘A real war requires participants. And the orcs have succeeded in putting paid to the ambitions of every petty chieftain for two mountain ranges,’ Neferata said, attempting to allay suspicion with speculation.

‘What of it?’ Ushoran said.

‘Those chieftains might be willing to do our work for us,’ Khaled said, from just behind Ushoran. The latter glanced at him. ‘Let the savages tear each other apart. It saves us the trouble, my king,’ he added, bowing obsequiously.

‘I see now why you kept him around,’ Ushoran said, smiling broadly. He glanced slyly at Neferata. ‘He has a good head for war.’

‘Yes,’ Neferata said, meeting Khaled’s eyes over Ushoran’s shoulder. Don’t get too comfortable, my Kontoi, she thought, remember whose dog you truly are. If Khaled understood the meaning of the look, he gave no sign. Horns blew as the Bloodytooth’s riders shot out through the open palisade to harry the orcs. Ushoran watched them go and grunted.

‘Once Vorag has had his fun, we will hold council. There are plans to be made.’

‘Oh yes, I quite agree,’ Neferata said, as some strange sensation prickled at the edge of her consciousness. Suddenly, a shadow fell across the palisade. No, several shadows.

Perhaps the orcs weren’t quite as beaten as she had thought.

Neferata spun as a raucous screech blistered the air. A wyvern crashed into the palisade, bat-like wings folding in and crooked talons flattening several Strigoi. A long serpentine neck shot out and jaws snapped shut on the arm of the warrior next to Ushoran.

Crouching atop the elephantine beast’s squat body, a large orc, clad in scraps of salvaged armour, thrust a spear at the King of Strigos. He bore the war-paint of a warlord, and by his ornate headdress of animal skins, jutting fangs and golden trinkets, she judged him to be the current overlord of the horde.

The spear, for all its crudity of design, pierced Ushoran’s armour with ease, thanks to the raw muscle behind the thrust. Ushoran staggered as the spear pierced his side and nailed him to the palisade, his mask of beauty slipping for a moment to reveal the beast beneath. Khaled sprang to Ushoran’s aid with an alacrity that Neferata found somewhat disappointing. He grabbed the spear and tried to pull it loose, even as the wyvern snapped at him.

Two more of the beasts had crashed into the palisade. On one, a wild-eyed orc wearing a leopard-skull headdress made grandiose gestures. Green, sickly lightning burped from its palms, striking men and turning them into whirlwinds of screaming ash. On the other was a large orc wielding a spiked flail, likely the warboss’s bodyguard or champion, and as Neferata watched, the weapon slapped the head of one of Ushoran’s vampiric bodyguards clean off his body.

Neferata gave a half-second’s contemplation to letting the orcs finish the job they had started. Then, with a snarl, she said, ‘Anmar! Help Khaled! Rasha, take the sorcerer! Keep Ushoran alive!’ A moment later, lightning-swift, she raced across the pointed top of the palisade and flung herself at the lead wyvern and its rider. The wyvern sensed her before its master and a great wing flared out as it attempted to swat her from the sky. Her sword tore through the leathery web of the wing and the wyvern shrilled, flinging her back. She flipped through the air and landed in a crouch on the palisade.

The dragon-like maw dived for her, a wave of foetid air washing over her. Dagger teeth slammed shut inches from her face as she jerked back. Her hand shot out and she dug her talons into the meat of the wyvern’s snout. It screamed and its head snapped back, yanking her with it. Neferata swung up and landed in an awkward crouch between its head and shoulders. With a snap of its wings, the agitated wyvern took off, rising above the palisade despite the angry howls of its rider. The orc had lost its spear in the sudden movement and clawed for the heavy chopping blade sheathed on its hip.

Air rippled past her, momentarily deafening her. A wave of vertigo threatened to overwhelm her as the beast beat its wings and ascended. The wyvern shrieked as it sped across the sky above Mourkain, scattering the carrion birds. Arrows arced towards it from the rooftops below, but none could penetrate the beast’s scaly hide. Neferata pointed her sword at the orc. ‘You want to fight the true master of Mourkain, brute? Then come, fight me!’ she roared as she drove her sword towards the warboss. The brute half rose from its makeshift saddle and its shoulders bulged with muscle as it blocked her blow with its own blade and forced her back.

She wobbled, nearly losing her balance. Beneath her, the ground rushed past in a blur of dull colours. There was no room to manoeuvre on the wyvern’s back. There was barely enough room for the orc riding it, let alone her. Tusks plated with beaten gold jabbed at her face and she grabbed one, yanking it out of the orc’s mouth. The orc squealed like a pig and grabbed her throat. The serrated edge of its blade eased towards her face. It was stronger than she had expected.

The orc shoved Neferata back against the rough scales, the edge of its blade brushing against her throat. With a convulsive swipe, she pushed up and beat the blade aside. The orc reared back, arms wide, mouth open. Neferata drove her blade through its chest and twisted her wrist, cutting its heart in two. It fell from its saddle, plummeting into the streets of Mourkain.

Neferata had no time to celebrate her triumph. The wyvern shrieked again and spun in the air, trying to dislodge her from its back. Without its master, it had gone wild. Neferata jammed her blade between two of its scales and hung on as the creature jerked and looped through the air. Flattened against its back by its speed, Neferata began to wriggle forwards. She needed to dispose of the beast, and quickly.

Inch by torturous inch, she climbed towards the beast’s head. Jerking her sword free and stabbing it in, she anchored herself against the creature’s increasingly violent efforts to throw her off. Its wings brushed one of the higher buildings, sending a stream of shattered stone and dust cascading into the streets. She reached the base of its skull, grabbed its horn and gave a jerk, yanking its head around through sheer brute strength. The wyvern banked, if unwillingly, and squalled in fury. Gritting her teeth, Neferata gave the horn another yank. The beast was stronger than her, but it hadn’t quite realised it yet.

It was also very, very angry. And she was going to make it even angrier. Neferata spun her sword and jabbed the point against the edge of the wyvern’s eye-socket. It snarled in agony as she shoved the blade between its eye and the socket wall. Spasms of pain rippled through its body, nearly flinging her from her perch. But she had accomplished her goal – the beast twisted through the air and raced blindly back towards the palisade and its fellows. Neferata hunched up on its head, gathering her legs beneath her. She jerked her sword free of its eye as it smashed into the second of the wyverns.

In the chaotic moments before the two beasts collided, Neferata saw Rasha leap away, followed by a crackling column of emerald fire. The orc shaman turned and gaped comically as Neferata’s wyvern barrelled into its own and both beasts toppled backwards from the palisade in a thrashing, crashing heap of scale and muscle.

The water of the river reached up for them greedily and Neferata leapt from the wyvern even as the water closed around them. She lunged for the orc shaman, attempting to disembowel it as they hit the water. Abhorash had insisted on digging a moat between the palisades and the rest of the mountain slope. It had taken a hundred men more than a hundred days of backbreaking labour to carve the winding scar and another month to properly divert water from the wild, dark river that surrounded and irrigated Mourkain into it. The moat was only as deep as three men standing one atop the other, but it had served its purpose, blunting the idiot ferocity of the first few orc assaults.

A thrashing wing crashed against her, sending her shooting through the water. She barely held on to her sword. The two wyverns were tangled together, snapping and writhing. Bloody clouds floated through the water as Neferata arrowed towards the floating shape of the shaman. The orc was desperately clawing for the surface.

She grabbed its thick ankle and yanked it down. Sorcerers were dangerous, even to her kind. Even if the sorcerer in question were a green-fleshed savage, the magic they wielded was one of the few things she knew of that could kill one of her kind.

Thus, caution was called for. She sank down to the river bottom and crouched, hauling the struggling orc after her. Its piggy eyes bulged as the shadows of the struggling wyverns fell over them, and it clawed for the distant grey light of the surface. A slew of bubbles burst from its bulbous jaw. Neferata grinned as the shaman slowly drowned. When she was certain it was dead, she let the body float to the surface and followed it.

As her head broke the surface, one of the wyverns followed suit. It crashed up out of the water, torn wings flapping and its jaws coated in bloody froth. Blinded and berserk, it screamed a challenge and lunged for her as she crawled up onto the bank.

Two swords punctured its brain pan a moment before it struck, driving its head down into the water at her feet. Anmar and Rasha rose from the water as the beast’s death-throes ceased. Neferata laughed and hauled the dead shaman up, lopping off its head a moment later. Holding up the head by one of its tusks, she leapt lightly onto the dead wyvern. She extended her arm, holding the head aloft.

She shrieked out a challenge in the greenskin tongue, pitching her voice to carry across the clamour of the battlefield. Her words didn’t need to carry far. They only had to kick the first pebble of the avalanche loose.

The orcs broke, as she had known they would. In the past two centuries, she had learned the intricacies of their ways. It had been child’s-play for one used to dealing with the ambitious kings of Nehekhara to incite the orcs to mass and attack.

Now, keeping them attacking for close to two centuries had been the trick. Two centuries of constant invasion and retreat had created a massive horde of the beasts – a Waaagh! as they referred to it. As each small wave was destroyed, it had collapsed and been absorbed by the next, creating a perfect storm of bestial violence. With this last attack, she judged that the time would be right for another period of infighting among the various tribal remnants, especially with the current warboss and shaman dead; others would have to be chosen.

‘Rasha,’ she murmured as she looked up at the palisade. Ushoran seemed to have survived and he was occupied with his guards. The slim vampire looked to her mistress, water trickling down her face.

‘Wazzakaz,’ Rasha said, knowing what Neferata wanted.

‘Yes. Go give him a sign, would you?’ Neferata said, tossing the head into the water. Wazzakaz was the next-most prominent of the current crop of orc shamans, and a firm believer in throwing his followers at the holds of their ancient enemies the dwarfs, rather than the pitiful territories of the humans. Now, after this most telling defeat of his current rival, would be the perfect point for Wazzakaz to see an omen which would encourage him to insist that whatever chieftain was listening to him this week press his right to control the Waaagh!

Rasha moved swiftly and departed down the slope, unnoticed by any of the others there. Neferata’s followers had learned much about the arts of stealth over the decades. Then, it wasn’t hard in the aftermath of a battle to move without being noticed, especially considering some of the others up and about. On the nearby slopes, dark cowled and robed figures prowled among the dead. To the people, they were simply the Mortuary Cult. It was a source of supreme amusement to Neferata that W’soran had chosen to co-opt the cult of the liche priests of the Great Land, and dedicate it to gathering the dead for his dark experiments. She climbed out of the river and shook her hair, trying to free herself of the slimy feel of the water.

‘We will reap a great harvest this day,’ a sibilant voice chortled.

Neferata turned. The speaker was draped in heavy robes, but even with the concealing hood, she could tell that his head was overlarge and oddly proportioned. ‘Melkhior,’ she greeted the robed man. ‘Your cloud cover came in handy. You should be commended.’

Melkhior emitted a gurgling laugh. ‘You would be the only one to do so, my lady,’ he said. She caught a glimpse of the face in the hood and repressed a grimace. More bat than human and more corpse than bat, Melkhior was the most senior of W’soran’s ever-growing supply of apprentices. The other vampire had apparently discovered a love of teaching. Thin-limbed and bloat-bellied, Melkhior looked and smelled like a corpse that had been left overlong in the sun. That was natural among W’soran’s students. Melkhior was also a treacherous little worm, if what her spies reported was the truth, having murdered at least three of his rivals for W’soran’s attentions. That too he had learned from W’soran, and Melkhior was nothing if not an apt pupil. ‘And you deserve a commendation as well,’ the apprentice continued, gesturing to the dead wyverns. ‘Such heroism puts even mighty Abhorash to shame.’

‘Speaking of heroes, where is your master? Cowering in the dark while the rest of us defend his hideaway?’ Neferata said, using the tip of her sword to pull the edge of Melkhior’s hood away from his face. The vampire jerked back.

‘He is above such petty concerns as mere warfare,’ Melkhior said.

‘Yes. So he has said on numerous occasions. What is it he is not above, I wonder,’ she said, frowning. She traced the bloated sack of Melkhior’s cheek with the sword tip.

‘Ask him yourself,’ Ushoran said.

Neferata turned and looked up at the palisade as Melkhior scurried away. Ushoran gestured sharply, as if to a dog. ‘Come, my Lady of Mysteries. Your king requires your counsel.’

Neferata sheathed her sword without flourish. She refused to give Ushoran the satisfaction of reacting publically to his needling. She and Anmar stepped through the broken section of the palisade. The third wyvern lay there, gutted and cooling. Spears and arrows sprouted from every inch of its body and its rider lay in several pieces some distance away. Anmar preened slightly as they stepped over the orc’s head, which still had a surprised look on its face.

‘Well done, little leopard,’ Neferata murmured as they joined the others.

‘I live but to serve, my lady,’ Anmar said.

‘If only all of my servants were so accommodating,’ Neferata said. Anmar made a face.

‘He’s only doing as you asked, my lady,’ she said diplomatically. ‘As he always does,’ she added.

‘Do you think I’m too hard on him, my child?’

Anmar paused, sensing the danger in her mistress’s tone. ‘I think he is devoted to you. We all are.’

‘Devotion is no substitute for obedience. And your brother is anything but obedient. See that you do not follow his example, little leopard,’ Neferata said, without looking at Anmar. She left the other woman standing there as she joined Ushoran’s entourage.

Mourkain had weathered the orc attack as it always had. The palisades which covered the lower slopes and approaches took the brunt of any attack. Only occasionally, when the brutes gathered the sense to hurl some form of flying beast, like the wyverns of lamentable memory, at the city, did Mourkain itself suffer from battle.

Still, there were other ways to suffer. Fresh water was easy enough to come by, but food was almost impossible to grow in these high reaches. Thin, pinched faces filled the streets as Ushoran’s panoply rode into the city. Rationing had been instituted early on, and with the coming of the Waaagh! food supplies had been limited to what could be brought in between assaults.

W’soran was waiting for them in the council chambers of the black pyramid, alongside another of his apprentices, the Strigoi nobleman Morath. The latter gave her a sickly grin. She felt some small pang of sympathy for the mortal – or not so mortal perhaps, considering that he had unnaturally lengthened his own span, albeit not in the usual fashion.

Morath was unusual. The only breathing man in the room, the Strigoi was slim, with the look of a poet, rather than a warrior. He was as dangerous as any member of the Strigoi nobility, however, having been schooled in the arts of blade and bow since childhood. If he lacked Vorag’s obvious muscle, he more than made up for it with a subtlety of wit that Neferata found refreshing. He was perhaps the only civilised man in Mourkain. It was a shame that he had been pledged to W’soran’s service by Ushoran. Then, that was perhaps one of the few intelligent decisions that his majesty had made. Ushoran knew that W’soran couldn’t be trusted, and that it was only a matter of time before he vanished or tried something, and left Strigos bereft of his magics.

But Morath, above all else, was loyal to Strigos; the ideal, if not the men who made it. He sat near his master, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Neferata could understand that as well. W’soran grew more inhuman-looking every year, with pronounced bat-like ears and a face out of nightmare. Thin, gangly arms protruded from the too-tattered sleeves of his robes, clutching tight to a messy pile of parchment, which he thrust at Ushoran as the latter entered the room. Ushoran scanned the parchment and grunted.

Shoving it back into W’soran’s hands, he said, ‘Abhorash, the map.’ Abhorash unrolled a large bear-hide. On the opposite side from the fur, a great map had been inked in painstaking and impressive detail. ‘Cartography is a rare skill, and one I have cultivated among my servants,’ Ushoran said. He swept a hand across a section of the map. ‘Orcs, barbarians and beasts – those are the enemies we face, my friends.’

Abhorash snorted. ‘Those are not enemies. Those are obstacles.’

‘Nonetheless, I need them not to be,’ Ushoran said. He looked at Neferata. ‘I need them gone.’

‘Orcs are easy,’ Vorag said. ‘If we can hit them hard enough and fast enough…’

‘We don’t have the men,’ Abhorash said, arms crossed. ‘It’s all we can do to hold the mountain passes…’

‘We don’t need them!’ Vorag snapped. Abhorash gazed at him steadily, but said nothing.

‘The barbarians are trickier,’ Morath spoke up, tapping the map. ‘The tribes are constantly changing size as they fight amongst themselves, and they change chieftains almost as often. We never deal with the same one twice.’

‘One barbarian is much the same as another,’ W’soran said dismissively.

‘And because you think that is why I am here.’ Neferata studied the map. ‘How big an empire do you desire, Ushoran?’ she said after a moment.

‘Why?’ Ushoran said.

‘Merely defining the limits of my authority,’ she said. Ushoran looked at her. She smiled. ‘The orcs are a problem. Diplomacy will be useless. But there are other ways of countering their numbers.’ She flattened her palm on the map and looked at Abhorash. ‘How would you describe the creatures, champion?’

‘A force of nature,’ he said.

‘Like a flood, say, or an avalanche?’ Neferata said. Abhorash nodded. Neferata patted the map. ‘The mountains form a natural culvert, and the orcs have, by and large, filled that culvert. They attack, because they have nowhere else to go. And the more they attack, the more of them are drawn into the culvert, seeking the battle they crave.’

‘Every time we force them back, it’s like dumping water into a leaky bucket,’ Abhorash said, nodding more fiercely. ‘We have to plug the hole.’

‘What hole? What are you talking about?’ Ushoran snapped.

‘I’m talking about ridding your lands of the orcs forever. We need to break their spine, to harry them out of the places they congregate and pulverise them as they are forced out into the light,’ Neferata said, making a fist. ‘They will eventually regroup, but we can buy ourselves several generations at least before their numbers swell to such proportions again.’

‘And how will you do that? As he’s pointed out,’ Vorag said, gesturing to Abhorash, ‘we don’t have enough men for the job.’

‘Perhaps not living men, no,’ W’soran began, eyes alight with interest. ‘I could–’

‘No,’ Neferata said flatly. ‘We have an opportunity here that must not be squandered simply for expediency’s sake.’

‘You spoke of the wildling tribes earlier,’ Ushoran said, stroking his chin.

‘Not just them. If you desire expansion, we’ll need closer ties with the Silver Pinnacle.’ She tapped the marker for the dwarf hold. It had taken her spies years to discover its whereabouts; the dwarfs used trading posts to ferry their goods to Mourkain, so protective were they of the whereabouts of their hold. ‘We must share more than gold with them…’

‘Blood,’ Abhorash said.

Neferata nodded. ‘They’re pressed just as hard as we are by the orc migrations. If we were to offer them a more proactive alliance…’

Ushoran sat back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. Finally, he said, ‘What would you need?’

‘Vorag,’ Neferata said immediately. Vorag blinked, and then slowly grinned. ‘We’ll need to move quickly. The tribes will do our heavy fighting for us.’

‘Yes, you still haven’t said how you intend to accomplish that,’ W’soran said. ‘The Draesca and the other wildlings have no love for Strigos.’

Neferata smiled. ‘You have your secrets, sorcerer. Let me have mine.’

When the council had ended some hours later, Neferata returned to her chambers. Naaima waited for her there. ‘It’s time,’ she said.

‘I sent the girls out at sunset,’ Naaima said.

‘As always, you predict my needs,’ Neferata murmured, sipping her second goblet more slowly. ‘They have their instructions, then?’

‘Yes, and the tribes await their coming. Beautiful daughters of the high agals of Strigos, wedded to the chieftains of the tribes.’

‘Blood is a stronger bond than gold. Longer lasting as well,’ Neferata said, falling into a hard stone chair. ‘The girls will choose handmaidens of their own from the high women of the tribes and those women will control their husbands and the tribes…’ Neferata gestured with her free hand and smiled. ‘Has Rasha returned?’

‘Yes,’ Naaima said. ‘The orcs are moving west, towards the ranges where the Silver Pinnacle sits. It will be a year at least before they attempt to mount an assault, or try and return here.’

‘Like water sloshing in a bowl. First one side and then the other,’ Neferata said. She added, ‘The trick being to get the water to slop out without getting wet.’

‘It sounds like quite the trick, then,’ Naaima said. ‘And how will you do it?’

Neferata smiled. ‘Why, by letting someone else hold the bowl, of course.’