Neferata

by Josh Reynolds

  Naaima and the others drew back, disconcerted by the sheer malevolent power radiating from the armoured man. The fanged visor of a winged helm was flipped up, revealing a noble, if brutal face. ‘My queen,’ he said again. There was no respect in his voice. The title was delivered grudgingly and the words were bitten off.

  ‘Abhorash,’ Neferata said harshly. And then, more softly, ‘My champion…’ Abhorash looked different than the last time she had seen him. Stronger, perhaps. As with herself, the years since the fall of Lahmia had burned him clean of imperfection. He was every inch the warrior; every movement spoke to potential violence, every word was a thrust of steel.

  He had always been handsome, after a fashion, with solid features scooped to a point, like some great bird of prey wearing a human mask. In her youth, she had been enamoured of him, but childish fancy had faded into mature discontent as she grew to know him better. As she saw his weaknesses for what they were, rather than for the nobility he claimed to possess.

  Her mind reeled at the sight of him. What was he doing here? How had he got here? Was he following the black sun as well? Question after question splashed across her mind but with a shake of her head she thrust them aside; now was no time for questions.

  ‘Surprised to see me?’ Abhorash said grimly. His voice was strained, as if some great roiling fount of emotion were hidden beneath his façade of arrogance.

  ‘Seeing as you were intent on dying gloriously the last time I spoke with you… no,’ Neferata said. ‘You always were a disappointment.’ The jibe was meant to cut, and by the flicker of expression that flitted across his face, she knew it had struck home. He had never taken easily to immortality, though he had desired it strongly enough in the beginning. For a warrior he was surprisingly squeamish regarding the more practical aspects of eternity. Or he had been, at least. He looked hale and hearty enough now, and stank of blood as surely as she herself did. ‘Ushoran made this?’ she said.

  ‘He has made many,’ Abhorash said, faintly disapproving.

  Neferata hesitated. She looked down at Vorag. He had said that this land was a gift. Whose gift, Ushoran’s? He had mentioned other names as well… Strezyk and Gashnag. Were they more vampires? The implications were unpleasant.

  Abhorash grunted and gestured to Vorag. ‘Release him.’

  ‘Who are you to give me orders, champion?’ Neferata said, jerking Vorag’s head viciously. The vampire groaned and she wondered at Abhorash’s words – was this creature truly one of Ushoran’s get? Had that conniving little rat made a nest for himself somewhere in these mountains?

  ‘Not your champion. Not any more. Release him, woman, or I will be forced to–’ Abhorash rumbled, fingers caressing the serpentine pommel of the blade sheathed at his side.

  ‘Die? Wouldn’t that be a shame,’ Khaled said, drawing his own sword and sliding between Neferata and Abhorash.

  ‘Move, boy,’ Abhorash grated, his dark eyes blazing. He blinked as if in recognition. Khaled hesitated, but stood firm.

  ‘Ahhhhh,’ Neferata breathed. ‘I see you know my new champion, Abhorash.’

  ‘You are as profligate as Ushoran,’ Abhorash rumbled.

  ‘I was only finishing the job you started,’ Neferata spat, and Khaled twitched.

  Abhorash shrugged, like a wolf shaking off an insect bite. ‘Release Timagal Vorag,’ he said again. Abhorash’s two companions urged their mounts forwards, drawing their own swords. Neferata’s eyes glowed like lamps, and her lips had writhed back from her fangs. Violence hung on the air, palpable and terrible. The humans had gone white and they trembled, like field-mice caught between duelling cats.

  ‘Whose champion are you now, Abhorash?’ Neferata said. ‘Are you Ushoran’s dog now?’

  ‘I am no dog, queen of nothing,’ Abhorash snarled, hunching forwards in his saddle.

  Neferata abruptly released Vorag and stepped past Khaled towards the litter where Razek still slept, unawares. Abhorash blinked, surprise writ on his features.

  ‘What–?’

  ‘He said he was going to Mourkain,’ said Neferata. ‘He and his people were ambushed by a group of those twisted beast-men that seem to infest these mountains. They all died, save him.’ She looked at Abhorash shrewdly. ‘You were out here looking for him, weren’t you?’

  ‘What?’ he said again.

  ‘You were never fleet of thought, my champion. That these men should show up on the path the dwarfs were taking to Mourkain is too much of a coincidence,’ Neferata said slowly, as if speaking to a child. She recalled Vorag’s eyes as he had caught sight of Razek. ‘They were looking for them, weren’t they? An escort… and you were out here to escort the escort, but why? Oh, I smell Ushoran, and not just on that lout’s blood…’ She grinned. ‘Does he not trust his own disciple?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Or perhaps it’s you who doesn’t trust him, hmm?’

  Abhorash’s face went still and stiff and Neferata knew that she had again struck a nerve. ‘Well, regardless, I have saved you the trouble of finding him. Let’s deliver him together, shall we? I should like to see my esteemed Lord of Masks once more.’

  Abhorash’s men looked to him for orders, and for a moment, Neferata wondered whether his hatred of her would outweigh his common sense. If so, she would be forced to kill them and perhaps him. The former was certain, the latter… not so much. Of all the first immortals, Abhorash was perhaps the only one who could match her. It was a shame that he was such a hidebound fool.

  Abhorash snorted and waved his men back. ‘Sheathe your swords, Lutr, Walak.’ He looked at Vorag, distaste evident on his face. ‘And someone help the Bloodytooth up.’

  ‘Are you sure this is wise?’ Naaima said, joining Neferata. Her fingers toyed with the hilt of her sword and she eyed Abhorash’s broad back speculatively.

  ‘Of course it’s not, but the time for wisdom has long since passed,’ Neferata said. ‘She who hesitates is lost, after all.’

  Naaima snorted. Neferata glanced at her, then away, choosing to ignore the jibe. ‘The Bloodytooth,’ she said, nodding to the brute as his men helped him up. He shook them off with snarls and curses.

  ‘A barbarian,’ Naaima said.

  ‘And a vampire,’ Neferata said, rubbing a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth and examining it between her fingers. Vorag, on his feet again, looked at her and his gaze became speculative. Then he grimaced and rubbed the still-bleeding wounds her fingertips had made in his face.

  ‘He’s not used to it yet. He barely knows more than Anmar. He is stupid,’ Naaima said.

  ‘Or Ushoran has not taught him all that he is capable of.’ Neferata licked her fingers clean. ‘Interesting, that…’

  Naaima looked at her. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘You know me well enough to know that, sweet Naaima,’ Neferata said, stroking the other’s cheek briefly. ‘I am seeking the advantage.’

  As she turned away, she caught sight of the black sun and it seemed to pull at her more strongly than ever. It loomed large, larger than it ever had before, and seemed intent on swallowing the moon and the stars. Neferata blinked and looked away, but to no avail. It flickered and invaded her vision from every angle. She could hear it now, as well, a sibilant drone that invaded her thoughts. She shook her head, unable to discern the words she knew lurked within the sound.

  The darkness at the heart of the sun squirmed and she was reminded of the great asps’ nests that sat beneath the floors of the temple to Asaph. Slithering shapes coiled and pulsed in the belly of the black sun. They were vague things and stirred in her a fear such as she had not felt even when Alcadizzar’s knife had plucked at her heart. They writhed like pain-contorted bodies in a fire-pit, or perhaps corpses trying to pull themselves from the earth.

  Hurry, Neferata, the voice seemed to say. Watching the shapes, she thought of the dead men that W’soran had wrenched from their slumber of ages a
nd set upon Alcadizzar’s forces in that final, great battle. Something in the darkness seemed to latch on to this thought. The blackness stretched towards her from over the mountains, speeding towards her, faster and faster.

  Neferata wanted to run, to flee, but she was rooted to the spot. The needle-on-bone voice was back, digging into her hindbrain like a butcher’s hook into meat. It wanted something from her, something important. What did it want? What?

  ‘What do you want?’ she whispered.

  ‘You hear it as well,’ Abhorash said. He had dismounted, and led his horse by its reins.

  She looked up. ‘Hear what, my champion?’ she said, forcing a smile as she shoved the sibilant, sharp whispers aside.

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ he said. ‘And do not play games with me.’ He gazed steadily at her, as if searching for the answer in her face. ‘Why are you here?’ he said softly, rubbing his horse’s nose. There was a wary look in his eyes, and a bubble of laughter rose up in her.

  ‘Why am I not dead and buried beneath the Arabyan sands, you mean?’ She glanced at Khaled. ‘You taught him well.’

  Abhorash said nothing. Neferata moved closer to him. ‘Then, you did what you always do – you left. You left those who were counting on you. And I stayed, and made the best of it.’ She showed her fangs and Abhorash looked away. ‘Is that shame, warrior? Or embarrassment?’

  Abhorash’s gaze snapped back towards her, hot and angry. ‘Neither. It is disgust.’

  Neferata hissed. ‘It is I who should be disgusted!’ She leaned close. ‘If you hadn’t left–’

  ‘I left because I was no longer fit to stay!’ he thundered. Neferata stepped back, blinking. The raw pain in Abhorash’s voice was hard to ignore. ‘None of us were,’ he said, looking away. ‘We should have all left. I should have made you. If I had…’

  ‘If you had, Nagash still would have done as he did, and Nehekhara would still be dead,’ Neferata said. ‘And we would be dead with it.’

  ‘We belong dead,’ Abhorash said. Neferata said nothing. ‘It is the pyramid,’ he said after a moment, abruptly switching topics.

  ‘And what pyramid are you referring to?’ Neferata said, not looking at him.

  ‘You’ll see it soon enough,’ he grunted, turning back to his horse. ‘You want to go to Mourkain, after all.’

  ‘Feel free to talk about it anyway,’ she said. ‘What is it, Abhorash? Did it call you as well?’ An unintended note of pleading entered her voice and she cursed herself for the weakness. ‘Does it come to you in your dreams?’

  He shifted uncomfortably. She relented, seeing that he would not speak of it. ‘Tell me about Mourkain,’ she said. ‘Tell me about Ushoran.’

  ‘He has made himself king over these people,’ Abhorash said. ‘Savages mostly, though their culture is not as degenerate as some in these mountains,’ he added. He was looking at Vorag as he said it.

  ‘And Strigos,’ she said.

  ‘Their name for themselves,’ Abhorash said. ‘The Strigoi of Strigos, and Mourkain is their capital.’ He looked at her. ‘They are a hardy people.’

  ‘They speak Nehekharan,’ she said.

  ‘A debased form, yes, I suppose they do,’ Abhorash said.

  ‘And you don’t find that curious?’

  ‘I hadn’t given it much thought. Settra had outposts farther north than this in his time,’ Abhorash said, as if that explained everything. ‘In time, they might even be as our people are. Were,’ he added, frowning. Neferata grimaced. The people of Nehekhara were dead and gone now. They were dust and bones, thanks to Nagash.

  ‘And now Ushoran rules them,’ she said. ‘How did that come about, I wonder?’

  Abhorash looked at her. ‘Does it disturb you?’

  ‘Doesn’t it you? Oh, I forgot, you’re his champion now, aren’t you?’

  Abhorash growled. Neferata met his glare and held it. ‘It won’t work, you know. Not with him. Ushoran is no more a king than–’

  ‘Than you are a queen,’ Abhorash bit out. ‘Not now and never again.’ He took her hand. ‘Neferata…’

  She yanked her hand free of his grip. ‘No one touches me without my permission, my champion,’ she said.

  ‘As I have said, I am no longer your champion,’ he said, letting his hand drop to his sword’s pommel.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘You are Ushoran’s champion now.’

  Abhorash’s lip curled. ‘No. That particular honour goes to Vorag. I am a mere ajal.’

  Neferata cocked her head. ‘Ajal,’ she repeated, tasting the unfamiliar word.

  ‘It is the Strigoi term for a lesser lord. Ushoran is stingy with titles,’ Abhorash said, smiling thinly.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ He seemed puzzled by the question.

  ‘Yes, Abhorash, why,’ she said. ‘Why serve him at all?’

  His eyes shrank to slits. ‘You wouldn’t understand, my queen,’ he said.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  He turned and strode away, his cloak flaring about him. Neferata watched him go and snorted.

  ‘He is frightened,’ Naaima said. Neferata looked at her handmaiden. As ever, she had not heard the other woman’s approach. In life, Naaima had been a shadow, and little had changed in death.

  ‘Abhorash doesn’t know how to be frightened,’ Neferata said, albeit with more uncertainty than she was used to.

  ‘Then he has learned,’ Naaima said.

  Neferata frowned. If Naaima was right, then that boded ill. What was Abhorash frightened of? Did he feel the same hungry pull that she did? Was that what had drawn him to Mourkain?

  Do you feel it, Neferata? Do you feel the silent angles of the Corpse Geometries growing sharper about you? The charnel mathematics of Usirian have drawn you here, Neferata…

  ‘Silence,’ she hissed, closing her eyes. The voice withdrew. Usirian was the god of decay and death. The jackal-headed potentate of graveyards and dead-things; he was no more real than Asaph or Ptra. She pulled her furs tighter about her, suddenly, inexplicably cold.

  Neferata and the others were given the horses of those of Vorag’s men killed in battle with the beasts. The animals did not shy when the vampires mounted. Vorag met Neferata’s questioning gaze and said, ‘Hetman Ushoran instituted a breeding programme several years ago. He wanted horses that would be used to our smell.’ He patted his own.

  ‘That implies that there are enough of us to ride them,’ she said. Hetman meant king, she thought, from the context.

  Vorag smiled widely. ‘More than enough, I should say. Everyone important got the bite.’ He chuckled. ‘And more than a few who weren’t.’

  ‘Which are you?’

  Vorag’s face reddened and then he grunted out a laugh. ‘I’d be insulted, but I have a feeling you’d make me pay for it, Lady Neferata.’

  ‘I would indeed, Timagal Vorag,’ she said. There was much of Ushoran in this creature, or perhaps like simply called to like. She had proven herself the stronger and now Vorag would play nice. At least until her back was turned.

  ‘I am important,’ he said. ‘The hetman gave me estates and men, which is more than he gave to some agals.’

  ‘Agal and ajal,’ Neferata murmured, filing the terms away for reference. Even among barbarians there was a hierarchy. ‘Tell me more, Timagal… I would not appear ignorant.’

  The ad-hoc column marched at night, out of deference to the immortals. Sunlight could be borne, at least by herself and Abhorash, but for the others it was tantamount to a slow death. They made good time regardless. Signs of civilisation had become more prevalent. Smoke trails in the distance spoke to the presence of villages and there were signs of the land being cleared. They passed by a number of mounted patrols, almost identical to Vorag’s men. The Strigoi were taller and broader than the men of Neferata’s homeland, and paler
than many she had seen since. They wore rough, utilitarian clothing and leather armour covered in metal studs that jangled softly as they rode. Scalplocks like Vorag’s were common and she wondered whether he had started the fashion. The riders gave Abhorash and his two warriors a wide berth, and Vorag glared openly at the other vampire, but only when his back was turned and only when he wasn’t tutoring Neferata in the peculiarities of Strigoi culture. Such outright hostility could prove useful, if it were properly focused, she thought.

  She kept close to Vorag, plying him with compliments and questions. One in particular she was most interested in getting an answer to. ‘You mentioned others earlier…’ she said. ‘Like us.’ She stroked his forearm as their mounts trotted side-by-side. ‘It has been so long since I have met others of our kind, save those I brought into this life myself.’

  ‘We are many,’ Vorag said, smiling. ‘It’s Ushoran’s idea of promotion.’

  ‘Ah,’ Neferata said. In Lahmia, they had purposely kept their numbers small, if only for safety’s sake. ‘Strigos is an aristocracy of the night, then.’

  Vorag nodded. ‘Too many, if you ask me. We were few, at first. Then…’ He made a limp gesture. His smile turned feral. ‘Granted, the younger ones don’t last long.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘We are a fierce, proud people, my lady,’ Vorag said, gesturing to his scars. He pulled a necklace out from beneath his cuirass and a number of fangs rattled on it. Neferata repressed a look of disgust. Vorag stuffed the gruesome trophies back beneath his armour. ‘We fight as well as we f–’

  ‘Yes,’ Neferata said as Vorag urged his horse forwards, responding to a shout from one of his men. Personal combat wasn’t unfamiliar to her. Such had been the law of the land in Nehekhara as well, though it had been a bit more organised in the case of her people. An old pain rose to the surface.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw the feast where it had all started to go wrong. She saw Khalida – her little hawk – stand up to accuse her of black magic and obscene rites. Only one of which was true. Khalida had demanded a trial by combat, and Neferata, trapped by her own words, had given in to her cousin.