Neferata

by Josh Reynolds

  She heard the clash of steel and felt that first gash beneath her left breast. She again felt that thrill of fear, so alien now more than a century after the fact. Again, she saw the blade in her cousin’s hand looping out for her throat. She could feel Khalida’s heart hammering through the thin material of her robe. And then she felt her die.

  But she hadn’t, had she?

  Neferata opened her eyes. Khalida had come back. Again and again, she came back. She shook her head, driving the thoughts aside. She had left all of that behind. Let the dead stay in the land of the dead.

  ‘Your fangs are showing, my lady,’ Khaled murmured. Neferata closed her lips and glanced at the other vampire. He smiled at her. She didn’t return the expression. He was never far away when she rode with Vorag. He was either overprotective or jealous, neither of which was useful to her at the moment.

  ‘Where are the others?’ she snapped. The forests had long since given way to the upper reaches of the mountains and the column of riders wound its way along a path into the high places. A few clumps of trees dotted the rocky slopes, but little else. They rode carefully. The Strigoi horses were bred for mountain travel, apparently, and displayed none of the skittishness she would have expected.

  ‘Scattered through the column, as you requested,’ he said. ‘Your eyes and ears are open and among the cattle, milady. We learn their language and customs, as you commanded.’

  ‘And why aren’t you with them?’

  ‘I felt it best to remain by your side, just in case…’ he trailed off hopefully.

  ‘Just in case what, my Kontoi?’ she asked, not looking at him. The word was Arabyan, and meant ‘noble rider’. In Bel Aliad, only men of noble birth rode horses into war, and clad themselves in the bronze and iron armour of the Kontoi.

  She had learned, to her cost, of the power of a Kontoi charge. Especially when Abhorash rode at their head, as he had then. She looked at Khaled. ‘Just in case I should require your protection, perhaps?’ she snapped and her tone was as sharp as a slash of her claws. Khaled stiffened and dropped back as she rode on, and she cursed herself for her tone. Khaled required more reprimanding than her other servants, but honey had to alternate with vinegar sometimes. It wasn’t his fault. Her blood-kiss seemed to affect men in certain unfortunate ways. She considered Abhorash’s broad back and sniffed. Then, it always had, had it not?

  Maybe Mourkain would provide answers to that as well.

  She looked back at her followers, drifting through the column of riders with the feline grace that so characterised those with whom she shared her blood-kiss. They would return to her side, minds full of gossip, rumor and knowledge for her to sift through.

  In life, she had employed the priestesses who served as her handmaidens in much the same fashion. No one noticed women or slaves. And they always heard such useful things.

  What would they hear in Mourkain, she wondered? Maybe the answer to what the black sun was. She looked up, wondering what had attracted Vorag’s attention.

  She looked ahead and the black sun seemed larger now; it had expanded in size, until its darkness swallowed all the stars and moon. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? Why–

  Something brighter than the light of creation’s darkness flared into being around her, seared the air that filled her useless lungs and burned her pale skin to cracked and blackened scraps. She threw up her hands, but she was already blind and burning.

  It rose over the mountains like some obscene beast crouching on the crags, its corona flickering through her thoughts like the tips of many knives. Cold heat slashed at her, chilling her bones even as it burned the flesh from them.

  Neferata stood at the heart of the black sun and was consumed.

  A world died.

  Every living thing in this world died and then stirred, bones ancient and new alike shifting and rising. The Corpse Geometries flexed in the ocean of stars as the Kings and Queens of the Land of the Dead rose one by one from their mighty tombs and marched towards the black heart of the charnel kingdoms.

  Familiar faces and forms stirred in the dust, rising and joining the march. She called out to them, but to no avail. They responded only to one voice, terrible and empty and cold. It was the voice like needles on bone. Simultaneously high and deep, like wind whistling through a ribcage, it spoke to her of the empire to come, the empire of ghosts and corpses, silent and perfect and eternal. The empire soon to rise…

  Now that she was here. Now that she was in Mourkain.

  Neferata opened her eyes and moaned. She swayed in her saddle as cemetery thoughts washed over her, seeking to pull her down. Again she tasted grave-dirt and smelled the rot of centuries. The concentrated essence of death filled her, making her light-headed.

  ‘Neferata,’ Naaima said, reaching for her. Neferata turned and saw the horror that hid beneath her handmaiden’s beauty. Maggots writhed through the gaping holes in the Cathayan’s cheeks and suppurating rents marred her nose and mouth. Teeth like razors flashed behind tattered lips. And in her chest beat a black sun just like the one in the sky.

  Neferata felt her gaze drawn down. A similar pulsing mass of corruption throbbed in her chest. She looked at her hands in growing horror, seeing the sickly glow of her bones beneath the pallid, porous flesh. She looked up, and something impossibly massive and impossibly evil crouched between her and the sky, nestling in the dead stones of the mountains like a beast preparing to spring. It was a nightmare orchard of skewed minarets and thrusting towers, sprouting like broken spears from the bloody soil of a battlefield.

  Hurry, Neferata! Come, claim your throne! You will be Queen of the World, Neferata. A queen of all that is, of all that ever will be for eternities without end. Come… come…

  ‘Neferata,’ Abhorash said from behind her. He grabbed her arm. She tore it free and spun, her fingers digging into the gorget that hid his throat. He crashed from his horse with a roar of surprise. Men’s hands flew to their weapons as Neferata leapt from her horse and dived on her former champion. Worms moved beneath his skin and for a moment, she considered trying to dig them out.

  There was corruption everywhere she looked, seeping into the rocks and strangling the life out of the crooked trees. And not just the trees; the Strigoi were bound by black threads that held them tight to their vampire masters, and they were shrunken, skeletal things to her eyes.

  Swords hissed out and she twisted aside as Abhorash’s men closed in on her from either side. She slid across the slushy ground on all fours, her jaws agape with a serpentine looseness. The red-armoured vampires advanced slowly, their blades extended.

  ‘Walak, Lutr,’ Abhorash gasped, pulling himself to his feet. ‘Don’t–’

  They didn’t listen. The one called Lutr came in fast, his sword chopping out towards her midsection. She caught the edge of the blade on her palm and drove it into the ground. Her fist connected with the vampire’s helmet, crumpling the metal. Lutr dropped like a stone as Walak’s blade sliced through her furs and the flesh beneath. The pain brought her back to herself, banishing the nightmare voice and its attendant phantoms.

  ‘I said no!’ Abhorash roared, grabbing his warrior and hurling the man aside in a prodigious display of strength. The warrior landed in a heap in the snow. The two vampires faced each other, fangs bared. Neferata was the first to let hers sink back behind her lips.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, forcing herself to utter the words. She needed Abhorash. Whether or not he was a willing ally, she knew she needed him. She needed his strength, his staunchness. She needed her champion.

  Abhorash hesitated, and then nodded brusquely. In his eyes, she saw that he knew exactly what it was that had driven her into such frenzy. Abhorash had seen it himself. ‘Mourkain,’ he said, pointing.

  She turned, half fearing that the black sun would take her into its mad embrace once more, or that the foul mass she had glimpsed would lunge f
or her. Instead, she saw the land rise sharply into a crown of broken hills, through which slithered a dark and fierce river. And there, at the top, was Mourkain. The city rose up like tombstones over the hills and peaks and she knew that it was far larger than it appeared. It was not quite the abomination she had seen moments earlier, but she knew that it wasn’t far removed.

  ‘It is beautiful, is it not?’ Vorag said.

  ‘Yes,’ Neferata said, not knowing whether she was telling the truth.

  FOUR

  The Great Desert

  (–1154 Imperial Reckoning)

  The desert tribesmen ululated wildly as they shook their weapons at the night sky. The victory had been swift and decisive. The Nehekharan pickets had never known what hit them, so swiftly had the tribes struck. Out here, on the edge of the Great Desert, the warriors of Nehekhara had grown lax and soft and they had paid for their inattentiveness with their lives. In contrast, the tribesmen were savages, clinging precariously to a harsh and unforgiving existence that had made them hard and fierce.

  Neferata reclined on a pile of cushions, smiling benignly as she sipped from a cup of blood. She was clad in iron armour, bloodstained now. Naaima crouched nearby, speaking softly to Rasha. Neferata considered eavesdropping then dismissed the idea. There was no cause to suspect that Naaima was doing anything more than teaching her newest handmaiden some detail or other about her new existence. Neferata examined the young woman, smiling slightly. Rasha, a chieftain’s daughter, had taken well to immortality. She had ripped out her own father’s throat and butchered her brothers for Neferata. Women, even chieftains’ daughters, were not treated well in the desert.

  With Rasha’s tribe beneath her thumb, she had swiftly brought others to heel through similar methods – chieftains and warlords torn to pieces by daughters and wives in nightly orgies of long-repressed violence. She glanced around at her new handmaidens; twenty in all, they reclined or supped on the bodies of captives taken in the raid. The garrison soldiers had been strung upside down from posts within the tent and their blood dripped into clay basins. As she watched, a woman lapped at the blood like a cat, her hair trailing through it. What the tribesmen thought of the peculiarities of their new mistress, she had never bothered to inquire.

  Several thousand of the nomads flocked to her night-black banners now. Some hailed her as the personification of the Desert Snake, others called her Mother Night. It was all the same to Neferata. As long as they served, they could call her what they liked.

  She looked over at the body of the young outpost warden from whom she had been supping. He was cold now, and blank-eyed. She clucked her tongue; she had taught Alcadizzar better than that, she had thought. The nomads of the Great Desert rose and fell like the tides, and their loyalties with them. It had been some time since some of their number had given shelter to the fugitive Rasetran prince, and the impositions he had made since – curtailing their traditions of raid and plunder – had put many of them in a hostile mood.

  Instead of bolstering the outposts, however, he had begun to pull his troops into Nehekhara proper. Neferata took a sip of still-warm blood. Something was going on. She could smell it on the wind… There was a carrion stink that put her in mind of old friends. There were rumours flying through the camps, of dead men walking and plague and pox and old evils newly returned. Black smoke had been seen belching from the mountains on the shores of the Sour Sea.

  She closed her eyes, considering. Something had turned Alcadizzar’s eyes away to the north. Now was the time to attack. Now was–

  The shriek was a monstrous thing, loud enough to flatten men and tents. The wind whipped and curled, hurling sand and sparks into the air. Something massive crossed through the sky above the tent, titan wings beating thunderously.

  Neferata leaped to her feet, tossing aside her cup and its dregs of blood and snatching up her sword. She drew the tulwar and tossed aside the goat-hide sheath as she bounded out of her tent, followed closely by Naaima and Rasha and her other handmaidens.

  The shrieking thing landed in the centre of the camp. It was as large as three horses and eyes like campfires blazed at the scattering tribesmen as a great spear-blade nose quivered and needle-studded jaws gaped hungrily. Sharp ears unfurled from the square head and its wings were tattered sails. It shrieked again, and several of Neferata’s handmaidens clapped their hands to their ears.

  On the back of the bat-creature, a familiar figure sat, jerking the reins to control his obscene mount. Tattered robes did little to conceal the cadaverous nature of the rider and as his sunken features turned towards her Neferata snarled in recognition.

  ‘W’soran!’ she growled, loping towards her old high priest, murder in her eyes. She leapt up onto one of the great beast’s wings as it slid across the ground near her and scrambled towards its back, her sword at the ready.

  ‘I bring you greetings, mighty queen,’ W’soran cackled. ‘I bring you greetings from your lord and master, Nagash!’

  Neferata sprang towards W’soran, her sword licking out towards his scrawny neck as the name of the Great Necromancer struck a painful chord in her. Black lightning crackled from his talon-like fingers, catching her in mid-leap and flinging her back into her tent, which collapsed atop her. As she floundered free, she saw her handmaidens engaging the laughing maniac and his pet monster. One of her servants was slapped from the air by one of the beast’s talons, her marble form disintegrating from the force of the impact. Neferata screamed and tore her way free of the tent.

  As she made to return to the fray, something heavy struck her and flung her forwards. She rolled to her feet and slashed out with her sword, striking only shadows. ‘He sensed you, Neferata,’ Ushoran hissed, crouching some feet away. His bulky form was huddled beneath a thick robe, but she recognised her former advisor well enough. ‘Nagash desires that you join him.’

  ‘Join, or serve?’ Neferata replied.

  ‘One is much the same as the other,’ Ushoran said, shrugging.

  ‘You throw over your loyalties quickly, Lord of Masks,’ Neferata said.

  Ushoran growled, and his talons flexed. ‘Lahmia is dead, Neferata. It is ruined and blasted and gone. Just like all of Nehekhara will be, when Nagash gets finished with it!’

  Neferata lunged. Ushoran sprang backwards, narrowly avoiding her strike. ‘Nehekhara and Lahmia are mine! Not Nagash’s and not Alcadizzar’s!’

  ‘You cannot defy his will, Neferata,’ Ushoran said, his claws skittering across her armour. ‘He will have you, one way or another!’

  ‘Then let him come for me himself!’ Neferata snarled, backhanding Ushoran. He flew backwards, caught by surprise. She spun to see W’soran flinging magical blasts at her handmaidens. As far away as she was, she could smell his desperation. Her handmaidens were fast and strong, neither of which could be applied to the withered vampire. They had expected to overawe her, to strike her dumb with Nagash’s name and their power. But she would not–

  YOU WILL.

  Neferata screamed as a mind like the cold of the tomb invaded hers. The words echoed and re-echoed, shattering her thoughts. She grabbed her head and staggered. The night spun around her.

  YOU WILL SERVE ME.

  ‘No!’ Neferata howled, clawing at her head. With a despairing scream, she wrenched herself around and began to run, away from the camp, and away from Nehekhara. Away from her plans and hopes and desires, Nagash’s thoughts battering at her as she ran.

  The Worlds Edge Mountains

  (–800 Imperial Reckoning)

  Beyond the thunderous crashing of the wild river, Mourkain rose stark from the mountain. The city was surrounded by a heavy wooden palisade in concentric and ever-shrinking rings that jutted from the rocky slope. Smoke rose from within, striping the air with greasy trails. The decaying bodies of orcs and beastmen had been impaled on great, greased stakes lining the approaches to the palisade. The bodies, both bulky and gre
en and malformed and hairy, were in bad condition and a flock of crows had claimed them for their own.

  ‘They attack every few months,’ Vorag said, swatting at a dangling green leg with his sword. ‘Not big on learning lessons, the urka.’

  Neferata said, ‘And the beasts?’

  Vorag grinned, displaying his fangs. ‘When the urka are thinned out, the beasts take their place.’ He sheathed his sword.

  ‘And vice-versa, I assume,’ Neferata said.

  ‘Ha! Yes,’ Vorag said, laughing and slapping his thigh. ‘The beasts are better hunting, but the urka have a better flavour. Or they did,’ he said, frowning slightly. Neferata smiled knowingly. Vorag glanced at her and his frown deepened. ‘You are strong. The Red Dragon is frightened of you.’

  Neferata hesitated. ‘Abhorash, you mean?’

  Vorag spat a wad of bloody phlegm to the ground. ‘Yes. That is what the people call him, “the Red Dragon”. Wearing all that iron, like the scales of one of those beasts.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s no way for a warrior to fight,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t much care for him, do you?’

  Vorag’s only reply was to spit again. Neferata chuckled. Before she could reply, the strident groan of horns from the top of the palisade broke the air. Neferata looked to the gates, which were being pushed open by a line of men in dark jerkins and hoods. The smell of men and animals and the detritus left by both washed over Neferata.

  ‘I’ve smelled nicer dung-heaps,’ Khaled murmured, earning a baleful glare from Vorag.

  ‘Surely you have not forgotten the smells of a military camp, son of Muntasir,’ Abhorash said, urging his horse forwards. Khaled frowned. Vorag made a similar expression as Abhorash joined them.

  ‘I forget nothing,’ Khaled snapped. Neferata laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘My followers do not, as a rule, often find themselves in such places,’ she said smoothly. ‘I have better uses for them than to waste them in battle.’