‘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, how
ever, 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.
THREE
The Great Desert
(–1158 Imperial Reckoning)
The raiders pushed their horses hard beneath the moon’s idiot gaze. Sand made blue by the moonlight puffed and blew as the horses – famed for their stamina and stride – pounded along the bandit-road. Behind them, the caravan burned.
In a wagon swiftly being consumed by hungry flames, Neferata rose and pushed the collapsing canopy of the wagon aside with a growl of frustration. Naaima lay unmoving on the ground outside, an arrow jutting from between her breasts. Neferata knew that a simple arrow would do nothing worse to one of their kind than render them immobile but even so, the sight of her handmaiden in such a state drove her into a rage.
It had been nothing more than a lucky shot. But now the dogs of the desert were riding away, her treasures in their saddlebags. Gold and silver from Lahmia and the lands of the Dragon-Emperor, the wealth of ages, intended for greater things than being bartered for a drudge in some desert-rat’s tent. Neferata snarled again and ripped an arrow from her shoulder, flinging it aside. She dropped down beside Naaima and plucked the arrow from her chest. Naaima’s mouth opened and a rattling shriek escaped her lips as she sat up, eyes wild.
Neferata helped her to her feet and brushed a lock of bloody hair from her eyes. ‘Can you walk?’ she said.
‘Y-yes,’ Naaima rasped, rubbing the already closing wound with trembling fingers.
‘Then you can run,’ Neferata said, spinning and sprinting in the direction the raiders had taken. After a moment’s hesitation, Naaima followed. The two women ran swiftly, more swiftly than any mortal being, and soon enough the horses came into sight. Neferata shrieked hungrily and leapt onto a horse’s flank, her claws sinking into the animal’s haunch. It squealed in fear and pain as Neferata swung up onto it like a lioness and pounced on the rider. She tore aside his scarf and headdress and sank her fangs into his throat, cutting off his scream. Sliding into a sitting position behind him, she ripped and chewed at the flesh of his throat, swallowing hot mouthfuls of pumping blood as she snatched the reins from his hand.
Naaima loped past, her jaws gaping, her delicate features stretching into something inhuman. A rider turned back and gave a yell as the vampire flung herself at him from a sand dune. She snatched him off his horse and hurled him to the ground, falling on him like a bird of prey. Neferata rode past and let the body of her victim tumble from his saddle.
She urged the horse on, conserving her own strength. The other raiders were pulling around, only just now realising that they had been pursued. Saddlebags bulged with ill-gotten loot. She rose in the saddle, letting the moonlight catch her bestial features. Men froze, hands quivering inches from sword hilts or bows. Her hair flared around her like a black halo and her jaws gaped wide, her tongue writhing in a nest of fangs. Eyes like hell-lamps blazed as she crashed among them, releasing the reins to stretch her hands out. Almost gently, her fingers played across the chests of the first two men, crushing them at the instant of impact and bursting their hearts in their breasts.
An arrow cut across her arm and she leapt from the saddle, bearing another rider to the desert. The archer fired again, skilfully controlling his horse with his knees. Neferata crouched over her kill, hissing as another arrow sank into her thigh.
Naaima leapt onto the archer’s back, ripping at him. He fell from his horse and snatched at a dagger sheathed on his belt as the two vampires closed in. Naaima leapt back as the knife sliced across her belly. Her hands came away with the rider’s mask. Neferata stopped suddenly, her grimace softening. ‘Ha,’ she said.
The archer was a woman. Fear had contorted her features, but it was easy to see that she was beautiful, albeit in a hard way. ‘Daemons,’ she spat, in the tongue of the desert peoples. She watched them warily, the dagger extended.
‘No,’ Neferata replied. ‘Not daemons, little sister.’ She rose to her full height and let her face soften back into its human semblance. ‘Not quite, at any rate.’
The woman was young, and her heartbeat sped up as Neferata approached. In the moonlight, the young woman’s face was almost familiar, and an old, remembered pang shivered up through her. ‘She looks just like her,’ she said softly. ‘Doesn’t she, Naaima? Just like my little hawk…’
‘No,’ Naaima said. ‘Neferata – no, don’t do this.’
‘What is your name?’ Neferata purred, ignoring her handmaiden, pressing a finger to the tip of the girl’s blade and moving it aside.
The young woman’s eyes had gone vague, their fierceness draining as Neferata’s hypnotic voice and gaze insinuated itself into her mind, numbing her and dulling her thoughts. ‘Rasha bin Wasim,’ she said hollowly.
‘Rasha,’ Neferata repeated, rolling the letters across her tongue. She brushed the dagger aside and it fell to the sand with a thump. ‘You remind me of someone, Rasha. Should I tell you about her?’
‘Neferata, stop–’ Naaima began, starting forwards.
‘Her name was Khalida and I loved her very much,’ Neferata said, fangs flashing as she plunged them into Rasha’s throat.
The Worlds Edge Mountains
(–800 Imperial Reckoning)
Neferata hit the ground and bounced to her feet with a hiss. She swept her sword from its sheath and slashed wildly at her attacker. He snarled and met her steel with his own. They traded blows, reeling back and forth across the snow.
Bloody froth collected at the corners of his mouth as he snarled at her. She heard sinew-strings rub against wood as arrows were fitted into bows. She hissed in frustration. Then, with a wild cry, her opponent lunged, his sword descending towards her.
Neferata caught his thick wrist and held it. He mimicked her, grabbing her wrist as her sword dug for his heart. His eyes bulged and black veins stood out on his pale skin as he tried to match her strength.
‘Neferata–’ Naaima began, rushing towards her.
‘Get the archers!’ Neferata snarled.
Her handmaidens sprang to obey. Stregga and Rasha raced towards the horsemen as a number of arrows leapt to meet them. The women dived and twisted, their shapes blurring. The sound of bones snapping and skin ripping filled the air and then they were among the horses, setting them to bucking and squealing and their riders to clinging on for dear life.
Naaima set herself between Neferata and the other riders, her blade swatting arrows from the air. Neferata, free to ignore Vorag’s men, concentrated on the other vampire. She was stronger, she knew. Indeed, it was all he could do to keep her at bay. No longer distracted, she smiled at him and easily jerked her hand free of his grip. She dropped h
er sword and placed her free hand against his face. ‘Bow, Vorag of Strigos,’ she said. ‘Bow or die, such is the way of our kind. Has the one who made you not taught you that?’ She leaned close. ‘Submit, and I will teach you many things…’
Vorag frothed as he struggled. He snapped and whined like a wild animal in Neferata’s clutch. She shook him slightly, with no sign of effort, and his sword fell from his grip. He grabbed for her wrist and her fingers stabbed into his head like bilge-hooks. Vorag screamed as she lifted him off his feet by the flesh of his face. His men sat frozen, awestruck by the sight of their leader being handled as if he were a dog.
‘Enough,’ someone said, then, louder, ‘Enough, my queen!’ Naaima shouted.
Neferata dropped Vorag and turned, licking blood from her fingers. ‘Yes, quite so, Naaima. I think I have made my point.’ She looked at her fingers. ‘That tastes familiar.’ She sank to her haunches, grabbed Vorag’s scalplock and jerked his head up. ‘Who gave you the blood-kiss, man of Strigos?’
Vorag spat a curse and she tightened her grip and slammed his head into the ground. Jerking him up again, she said, ‘Who?’
‘Ushoran, my queen,’ a deep voice rumbled. Neferata froze. Then, she uncoiled and rose, still holding tight to Vorag’s scalplock. She glanced over her shoulder. The others were standing near Naaima, separated from Vorag’s men by a newly arrived trio of armoured figures on horseback who watched them all with red gazes. Their armour was cruelly ornate and stained red, with a heavy cuirass of flaring ridges and curved edges over a suit of long mail. The tallest of the three men urged his horse forwards. As one, the human warriors dropped from their saddles to kneel in the snow, heads bowed. Like Vorag and Neferata and her followers, the newcomers were vampires, though as different from Neferata’s people as dusk from dawn.
Neferata Page 5
