Neferata growled in satisfaction. She urged her horse forwards. The defenders were falling back now, though not in an organised fashion, and retreating towards one of the city’s many market squares. Men trampled one another in their haste to escape the attacking tribesmen. Bloodlust stirred in her and she gave herself up to it gladly. She had restrained herself for months now, whetting her appetite for the coming bloodletting. Now she unleashed the pent-up aggression, flogging her horse forwards after the fleeing warriors. She hacked at their backs and upraised limbs, sheathing her arm in a sleeve of red.
She was laughing when the first lance caught her horse in its chest. It squealed and fell, forcing her to dive from the saddle. She sprang to her feet, sword licking out. The armoured Kontoi of Bel Aliad had arrived. The lancers wore robes sewn through with flat iron plates and heavy helmets that covered their faces. Their lances were weighty spears of wood that could bring down even the heaviest horse. They met the nomads in a tangle of metal and flesh, and the Kontoi’s greater mass began to prevail. Neferata found herself buffeted by horses and she leapt upwards, her claws snagging a Kontoi’s armoured coat. She snarled into the man’s helmet and then snapped his neck.
The sword nearly chopped through her arm as the dead man fell away from her. The Kontoi wore a finer coat than the others and brightly coloured silks dangled from his helmet in a rainbow halo. The sword seemed to writhe in his hand like a thing alive, and the sigils inscribed on the blade hurt her eyes. What was this? What was it–?
She fell back as the warrior swung at her again. The blade sizzled as it cut the air and it seemed to shiver. She fell from the horse and slid between its legs. She slashed the warrior’s saddle strap with her claws, sending him crashing to the ground. The square was filled with heaving, stamping horses and men and the sky was growing dark. Night was falling.
She rose, flinging back her hood. The Kontoi scrambled to his feet. He had lost his sword in the fall. With a yell, he dived for it even as she lunged for him, catching it up as she landed on him. She spun him around and hurled him into a wall hard enough to crack the brick. The warrior staggered, but remained standing.
Neferata eyed him warily. Her arm was slow to heal, and black froth collected in the open wound as steam rose from it. It ached abominably. She had been hurt in such a way only once before, when she had faced Alcadizzar before the gates of Lahmia and he had driven a knife into her heart. The sword was something fell and old. It was of foreign design, reminding her of the weapons she had seen in the marketplaces of Cathay, brought from the forges of the lands beyond the Great Bastion. Perhaps it was a daemon weapon of some kind, then. She would have more time to study it after she had torn it from the dead hands of its current wielder.
She stood up straight and stalked slowly towards him. ‘You fight well, warrior,’ she said, extending a hand. ‘Tell me your name, won’t you?’
The man hesitated. Her eyes caught his, holding them. She pressed her will down the length of the distance between them, hammering his. Slowly, almost grudgingly, he pulled his helmet off and tossed it aside, revealing a handsome, hawkish face. He was young. ‘I am Khaled al Muntasir, witch, and I am your death!’ he said, raising the sword. The blade shook ever so slightly, straining towards her like a dog on a leash. Khaled was sweating from more than just exertion. She could taste his fear, not just of her, but also of the weapon he held.
‘If you fear it so much, why not lay it aside, Khaled al Muntasir?’ she said. Her voice caressed him, piercing his mind and soul. She could do much with her voice. It had allowed her to conquer without raising a single weapon. But it took time to do it properly, and time was something she did not have. She reached out towards Khaled. ‘Put the blade down, boy,’ she purred, letting the soft tones envelop him. ‘Put it down…’
He blinked and trembled. She was impressed. His resistance was remarkable. Then, perhaps that was the influence of the sword. She would have to learn where he had obtained it. Such a potent weapon might be useful in the coming days–
He lashed out. She narrowly stepped aside and hissed as she felt the foul heat clinging to the blade. She slashed him across the face and he cried out. She grabbed his sword hand and pushed the blade away. Her other hand found his throat and forced him back against the wall. She looked into his eyes, flattening his will beneath her own. The sword was loose in his grip. She made to shake his arm, but a shout stopped her before she could.
‘Neferata, look out!’ Naaima screamed from somewhere above.
Neferata spun, only to catch a lance full in the chest. She was slammed backwards into the wall. A scream burst out of her as the lance buried itself in her ribcage and burst out through her back, pinning her to the wall. Her screams pealed wildly as she thrashed and struggled like a bug caught on a pin. She clawed at the wood desperately. Her feet were too far above the ground and her mind was too disordered by the pain to effect a shape-change.
Khaled chopped down on the lance. He shattered it, but she was still pinned. Coughing, blood and foam running down her front, she reached for him. Horror in his eyes, he stepped back and readied the sword. It made a hungry sound as it pierced her heart.
It was only as the darkness closed in that she saw the hand that had wielded the lance that had pinned her. She carried Abhorash’s frown down into the dark with her…
The City of Mourkain
(–800 Imperial Reckoning)
‘It was risky,’ Naaima said, sipping delicately out of a cup. ‘You are far too incautious, Neferata. He would have been well within his rights to have killed you. Abhorash–’
Neferata made a dismissive gesture. ‘Abhorash is still my strong right hand, whether he knows it or not. His sense of honour is a trap none of us can escape.’ She sipped from her own cup and looked around the apartment she had been given. It had once belonged to Strezyk, and was now hers by right of conquest. Apparently such was quite common in Mourkain, among the most rambunctious of the city’s aristocracy.
It was located in one of the larger buildings of the city, a tower that was almost beautiful after a fashion, and through its great window the diverse and myriad smells of Mourkain infiltrated the chambers. Braziers of burning incense hid the stink of blood which emanated from the upside down, barely-alive figure dangling from one of the many hooks dangling from the ceiling.
He was a criminal, she had been told. It was Ushoran’s practice to feed only from those accused of crimes, or from prisoners of war, a standard he held his followers to. Privately, Neferata thought it wise; nothing irritated a populace more than indiscriminate murder. She had learned that to her cost in Bel Aliad.
‘My lady, we’ve rounded them all up at last,’ Khaled said.
‘Speak of the beast,’ she murmured. Then, louder, she said, ‘How many?’
‘Six, my lady,’ Anmar said, flopping down on one of the great cushions which lay scattered across the floor of the chamber. ‘Not a fighter in the bunch. And one step above the great apes of Ind as far as brains go,’ she added with a snort.
‘Such sharp fangs, my little leopard,’ Neferata said, rising from her own cushions. ‘Intelligence and fighting ability can be taught. And if not, well…’
Khaled smiled. ‘Well indeed, my lady. Strezyk had good taste as far as looks went.’
Neferata frowned. ‘Careful, Khaled, your more unpleasant proclivities are showing. It is not a look which suits you.’ She gestured imperiously. ‘Bring them in.’
‘What are you planning, if not to stock our larder?’ Naaima said.
‘I am planning to see that others stock it for us,’ Neferata said. ‘We need friends. Strezyk took the pick of the booty when it came to certain prisoners of war, something which won him no allies in Ushoran’s little newborn snake-pit. We will not make the same mistake.’
Khaled brought the women in. They huddled together, stinking of fear. Barely-healed bite marks covered their arms a
nd thighs and Neferata repressed a hiss of disgust. Strezyk had been a cruel master, that much was certain. And while cruelty had its place, practised on the helpless it was mere sadism, and as such worthless and, worst of all, pointless. For Neferata, cruelty was the tip of the blade you twisted to force action. To practise it on wretches like these was gross indulgence. Once again she reflected that Strezyk was no loss.
The women were as beautiful as Khaled had said. They were former barbarian princesses, the daughters, young wives and cousins of conquered chieftains and warlords. But the haughtiness had been beaten out of them, and at least one had been bled almost white. Broken in body and mind, Ushoran probably expected her to drain them and throw them away.
But she had other plans.
She took the chin of a red-headed beauty and turned her face to the light. ‘Where are Stregga and Rasha?’ Neferata said as she examined the woman’s broad features.
‘Stregga is where you sent her, courting that brute Vorag,’ Naaima said. ‘And Rasha is–’
‘Rasha is investigating this edifice,’ Khaled said smoothly. Naaima glared at him, and he smiled. ‘As you requested, my lady,’ he added.
‘Yes,’ Neferata said absently. On the ride to Mourkain, Vorag had displayed undue attention to the blonde Sartosan. Stregga had been only too happy to indulge those attentions. And Rasha, born raider that she was, was as cunning and stealthy as any beast of the desert. If anyone could sneak about without alerting the spies that Ushoran had undoubtedly already placed around her chambers, it was her.
She looked the red-head in the eyes. ‘What is your name?’ she said. The woman looked at her blankly. Neferata squeezed her cheeks gently, with only the softest of pressures. There was a flash in the woman’s eyes, a buried spark of resistance. Neferata smiled. ‘Never mind, we have time to get acquainted. Naaima, see that they are bathed and properly clothed and fed. Strezyk appears to have been a firm believer in keeping them hungry.’ She released the woman and watched as Naaima led the girls out, considering. ‘Khaled, I wish you to get acquainted to those men in Ushoran’s personal guard. They’re made up of the firstborn sons of the agals – the Strigoi nobles. Find out whether their loyalties lie to Ushoran, the throne or their families.’
‘Of course, it would be my pleasure, but why?’ Khaled said.
‘You’re questioning me again, my Kontoi. Is that wise, do you think?’ she said without turning around.
‘I merely wish to understand your grand strategy, milady,’ Khaled said.
Neferata smiled briefly. ‘My strategy, dear Khaled, is to learn all that I can in order to ensure that our new kingdom survives longer than the last.’
The door thumped. Neferata turned. ‘Ah. And here comes another source of information now. Stay here. I will see him alone.’
She left her private rooms and entered the audience chamber. She strode swiftly to the door and threw it open, startling the two guards Ushoran had posted in the corridor. They eyed her cautiously, having been part of her predecessor’s guard. They had seen what she had done to Strezyk, and she could smell their fear.
‘Milady, Thane Silverfoot–’
‘Thane Silverfoot wants a drink. D’you fancy a drink, Neferata of Lahmia?’ Razek said, stepping past her into the room. He looked at the barren chamber and snorted. ‘Do you even have anything to drink?’
Amused, Neferata nodded to the guards and closed the door. One of them would doubtless be reporting to Ushoran. She turned to face the dwarf. ‘I believe there’s something in Strezyk’s cabinets, yes.’ She moved to the cabinets and plucked out a clay jug that sloshed promisingly. It had dust on it. She handed it to Razek, who pulled the cork with his teeth and took a swig. He made a face as he swallowed it.
‘Terrible,’ he said.
‘Yes, I expect so. Strezyk seems to have been deplorably lacking in taste.’
‘I heard he had an accident,’ Razek said gruffly. He looked uncomfortable. Neferata knew that the dwarf was still feeling put out. Messages had been sent to Silver Pinnacle, via methods known only to the dwarf himself, letting King Borri know that his son yet lived. There were a number of dwarf traders and not a few itinerant miners in the city and Neferata suspected that one of them, or even several, had been bullied into taking word to Karaz Bryn.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘And you’ve taken his place.’
‘Also yes,’ she said. Razek looked at her. After a moment, he nodded.
‘Good,’ he said simply.
Neferata smiled. ‘Gold,’ she corrected. ‘That is what this is about, I understand.’
Razek stared at the flames. ‘My people are interested in opening proper trade with Mourkain,’ he said.
‘Is it your people,’ she asked, ‘or your king?’
‘Not just him,’ he said.
‘You don’t approve,’ she said.
‘I have a longer memory, even when it comes to gold. We used to trade with Mourkain many years ago as you manlings judge things. Back when Kadon was running the works,’ Razek said. He shuddered slightly. ‘Brrr, he was a bad one, old Kadon. Sour, like a bad patch of tunnel, and touched in the head.’ He tapped his head for emphasis.
Intrigued, Neferata let him talk. Ushoran had been stubbornly close-mouthed when it came to his coup; at least she assumed that it had been a coup. He had always been a plotter, her Lord of Masks. It was just too bad that his plots always unravelled in the end.
‘They said he found something down deep in the dark, and that it spoke to him and broke him,’ Razek said in a faraway voice, as if reciting a children’s bedtime story. ‘Dwarfs know about that sort of thing. We know better than any man or elf what gnaws at the roots of the mountains and what coils in the dark beneath the world.’ He tipped the jug and the contents dribbled into his beard. ‘He used the dead,’ Razek spat. ‘That’s what did it. He forced the dead to serve him. That’s a power no mortal should have, let alone a creature like mad, bad Kadon.’
Neferata sat silently, digesting this new fact. She thought again of the black sun, and the voice like needles on bone. She suspected that it had spoken to Abhorash, but Ushoran? If he wasn’t the cause, what was? The stones beneath her feet seemed to tremble like the flank of a purring cat. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. ‘But things are different now,’ she said, prodding gently.
He grunted. ‘King Borri feels that what’s done is done.’
‘Not a very dwarf-like attitude,’ she said.
Razek looked at her. ‘Careful, woman, any other dwarf would have taken that for an insult. No, my father is practical. It’s why he made me his hearth-warden, after all.’
‘A prince and a spymaster,’ Neferata said. ‘Impressive.’
‘I’ve always thought so. Besides, who can a king trust but family?’
‘In my homeland, the answer was “anyone else”,’ Neferata said, smiling. ‘Perhaps dwarfs are different.’
‘We are. We are nothing like you, Neferata of Lahmia,’ Razek said seriously. ‘If your race survives for a million-million years you will never accomplish a third of what my people have forgotten.’
Neferata frowned. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps we will accomplish more.’
Razek chuckled. ‘That’s the spirit,’ he rumbled. ‘I owe you a debt, woman,’ Razek added, handing the empty jug to her. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’ll be doing all of my business with you.’
Neferata smiled. It was exactly as she had been hoping. ‘You honour me, Thane,’ she said, inclining her head.
‘I’ve already sent messages off to that effect to King Borri, may his fundament warm the throne for centuries yet,’ Razek said. ‘And I’ll be informing Ushoran as well.’ He squinted. ‘He’s a weasel that one, but I trust you to keep accounts settled.’
‘I’ve always had a head for figures,’ Neferata said, upending the jug. It was her turn to raise an eyeb
row. Razek grunted. ‘Anything else I can do for you, mighty thane?’
‘Get something better to drink. We’ll need to keep our throats wet if we’re to dicker properly,’ he said, turning towards the door.
Neferata watched him go. She let the jug fall and laughed as it shattered. But it was only a brief noise. Sobriety returned quickly. ‘Did you hear any of that?’ she said.
‘Of course,’ Khaled said, stepping out of her chambers. Anmar followed him. ‘Foul creature,’ he said.
‘But useful,’ Neferata said, kicking aside a broken shard of the jug. She rubbed her chin, thinking.
‘Yes, you are good at finding tools, are you not, my lady?’
Neferata spun, her eyes darting to the door to her private chambers. Khaled’s sword sprang into his hand and he lunged smoothly, followed by Anmar. The siblings leapt for the bulky shape which had entered the audience chamber behind them on noiseless feet. Taloned paws caught the blades of both swords and sent the two vampires crashing to the floor in a heap.
‘You left the window open,’ Ushoran said through a thicket of fangs. He had forsaken his guise from earlier, revealing his true monstrous visage. He was covered in so much muscle that he was forced to stoop over. He balanced on his knuckles and his bat-like face had lost all traces of humanity. His fine clothes had been replaced by a simple loincloth that flapped alarmingly as he sank into a squat. Beady eyes fastened on Neferata and a tongue like a red worm darted out, dabbing at a bit of dried blood that clung to the lipless jaws.
‘I wasn’t aware I would be receiving visitors through any other aperture than the door,’ Neferata said, waving Khaled and Anmar aside. The two looked at Ushoran in horrified fascination. Neferata wondered what they made of the other vampire, inhuman as he was.
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