Neferata

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘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 i
ts 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?’