Neferata

by Josh Reynolds

  The army was made up of frontier troops, men tested in years of battle against the orcs and beasts. Every frontier lord, no matter how minor, had some number of troops, and this expedition consisted of a number of frontier nobility. Vorag’s men, in the main, or those whom he was grooming in his barbaric way. Neferata knew, with the certainty of long experience, that Vorag was training an army. The frontier agals had long chafed at the demands Mourkain placed on them. Ushoran used the frontiers of Strigos as a dumping ground for those who displeased him or otherwise were not suitable for his court: the savages, the bloodthirsty and the rebellious.

  In other words, they were the perfect tools.

  On the third day, somewhere far ahead and to the east, Neferata’s keen hearing caught a sharp bleat from a primitive horn. She growled in satisfaction. The wildlings were on the move as well. She urged her horse on to greater speed. They swept through the ragged valleys and up steep slopes, only stopping when they had reached a thickly forested hill overlooking a rock-strewn gorge. Neferata reined in her lathered horse and swung from the saddle as Vorag said, ‘Here?’

  ‘If all goes according to plan, yes,’ Neferata said, walking to the edge of the treeline. ‘Make camp, and set out the pickets. We could be waiting for some time.’

  ‘Some time’ turned into another day and a night. Beneath the dark trees, the vampires could hide from the ravages of the sun. Neferata herself felt nothing; she stuck her hand into the light, letting it play across her fingers. A momentary tingle, like a kiss of heat, but that was all.

  ‘I miss the sunlight,’ Layla said, joining her at the treeline, but keeping well back from the cruel light. The sun was setting, but there was still enough of it over the horizon to prove dangerous to the younger of her handmaidens. The girl looked none the worse for wear for her lengthy run. She was still fascinated with the abilities that had been gifted to her, like a child with a new toy.

  ‘You will feel it again,’ Neferata said, pulling her hand back. ‘With age comes strength. For now, you must be satisfied with the moonlight.’

  The girl frowned, but said nothing. Neferata turned back to the valley and the horizon. The evening breeze carried the wild cry of the war-horns of the tribes as they mingled with the brutish drum-beats of the orcs. The wildlings had thrown themselves into their fight with commendable ferocity. Surprising the orcs as they had, they would carve off portions of the horde leaving what continued on, drawn as it was by Wazzakaz’s momentum, for the Strigoi to weaken further. An hour later, Neferata saw the moon rise and felt the soil shift slightly. The vibration was faint, but she recognised its meaning. ‘They’re coming,’ she said loudly.

  ‘It’s about time. I thought this plan of yours was going to be fast,’ Vorag groused before turning to bellow orders to his subordinates. Neferata summoned Layla with a crook of her finger.

  ‘Get up that tree and tell me what you see,’ Neferata said, gesturing. Layla obeyed with an alacrity that made Stregga chuckle as she joined Neferata.

  ‘She reminds me of someone. Can’t quite put a finger on it…’ the Sartosan said. Neferata glanced at her and the chuckles died away. Stregga shrugged. ‘Sorry, mistress,’ she said.

  ‘There is nothing to apologise for,’ Neferata said. ‘Simply watch your tone.’

  ‘Of course, mistress, I’m good at that, me. Soul of discretion. Quiet as a mouse. Silent as a leopard. Soft, like a–’

  Neferata looked at her handmaiden steadily. Stregga grinned cheerily. Neferata snorted and turned away. ‘I knew I should have killed you in Sartosa.’

  ‘Good thing you didn’t, eh?’ Stregga said. ‘When the bone-kings came calling, I was invaluable, if I do say so myself.’

  Neferata snorted again and tapped her fingers on the pommel of her sword. ‘My tolerance is not limitless, Lupa.’

  ‘But my usefulness is,’ Stregga said. ‘Besides which, Vorag would protect me, eh Vorag?’

  ‘She’s almost killed me once, she-wolf. I’ll not risk that again, not even for a morsel as delectable as yourself,’ Vorag said heartily, joining them at the treeline.

  Stregga made a face and Neferata smiled. She looked aside at Vorag and said, ‘You seem cheerful, champion of Mourkain.’

  Vorag’s smile dissolved. ‘I’ll not hold that title much longer,’ he said.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Neferata said.

  ‘Abhorash,’ Vorag said, chewing the name of his rival like a piece of stubborn gristle.

  ‘The people love him,’ Neferata said. ‘My people loved him as well, before he abandoned them.’

  Vorag growled. Stregga moved to his side comfortingly. ‘Ushoran wants him to take command of the armies. Says my ways are old-fashioned,’ he said.

  Which they are, Neferata thought. You are an anachronism, Bloodytooth, even in these primitive lands. And Ushoran is smart enough to recognise the game you’re playing. ‘He has replaced many of your comrades and peers as well,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘Men who should have received the kiss withered and died while arrogant play-warriors live forever in glory. Zandor, for instance, or that preening fop Gashnag, neither of whom are a match for you.’

  He looked at her, one fang protruding as he sucked on his lip. ‘No, they are not. Once, we were men. Now we are nothing but ticks or fleas on the carcass of a dog.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Neferata said. ‘I’m sure many feel as you do.’ Mainly because I have ensured that they do so, over the course of these past centuries. Not just other vampires either, but those noble families who have continually been passed over for induction into the ranks of the immortals, she thought with satisfaction. The wives and lovers of the Strigoi nobles had fairly fallen over themselves to receive her kiss. Ushoran refused to ‘waste’ his on women whom he saw as little better than dogs in heat. And those women had had years to mull over that insult and remind their husbands and lovers of it, as well as every other petty hurt Ushoran had done.

  ‘They do,’ Vorag said softly. It was his turn not to look at her. ‘They say Abhorash’s time in the north will be longer than he first thought. That the northern daemon-lovers are proving stronger than he estimated.’

  ‘Abhorash always did overestimate his own prowess,’ Neferata said smoothly. The ‘scouts’ she had sent into the north prior to Abhorash’s expedition had obviously done their job. Mourkain gold now filled the pockets of northern warlords, and they were more than happy to band together to stave off Strigos’s encroachment into the wastes. They would not succeed… Abhorash was effective for all his arrogance. But he would be occupied for years; long enough to see Ushoran put in his proper place… at her feet.

  ‘With him gone,’ Vorag began carefully, ‘Ushoran has few allies at court, though he knows it not.’

  Neferata’s expression did not change. ‘Nor will he. Ushoran is remarkably blind for one who prides himself on his cunning.’

  ‘He is no true Strigoi,’ Vorag said.

  ‘Neither am I.’

  He looked at her. ‘But you are not king.’

  ‘Nor would I be,’ Neferata said. ‘I have ruled, in my time. I found it… tedious.’

  Vorag nodded, taking her comment at face value. ‘And you bear Ushoran no love.’

  ‘No,’ Neferata said, allowing herself a small smile. ‘No, I do not.’

  Vorag nodded, as if satisfied. He was silent for a moment, visibly marshalling his thoughts. Stregga looked at her mistress. Neferata nodded slightly. It had not been difficult to bring Vorag around. The Strigoi were barbarians despite the veneer of civilisation that they wore. And for barbarians, treachery was like breathing. All it required was time to contemplate and machinate, something which vampires had in abundance.

  The difficult part had been making Vorag think it was his idea to approach her. But now that he had done so, she could at last pull tight the strands of her carefully crafted web. ‘Thes
e are times of change,’ Vorag said, finally. It was an obtuse way of saying ‘coup’, but Neferata understood him nonetheless.

  ‘Sometimes, change is for the better,’ Neferata said. ‘This is a mighty army, Timagal. It could accomplish much.’

  Vorag shot her a look. But before he could reply, there was a shout from above. Layla dropped down from the branches overhead, landing on all fours in a shower of pine needles. ‘They come, mistress!’ she said, visibly excited. ‘The orcs, even as you said!’

  ‘Ha!’ Neferata smacked her palms together. ‘Vorag, get the men in place and ready your riders! We shall have to time this perfectly.’ They needed to shave the orcs, not shatter them or draw their full ire. She only had a few thousand men, and she needed to hoard their strength for future endeavours. Vorag hastened to obey her orders. Neferata grabbed Stregga. ‘Stay by my side, Lupa. You as well, Layla,’ she said. ‘We will be needed here.’

  ‘Lovely. At the sharp end again, eh, my lady?’ Stregga said, drawing her sword and sighting down the length of the blade.

  ‘It’s where we belong,’ Neferata said, flinging off her cloak. The tribes had done their job well; the orcs streaming into the valley were disorganised. They were still dangerous for all that, and there were still enough of them to prove troublesome for Razek’s throng further up the valley. They needed to get their attention.

  ‘Sound the drums,’ Neferata shouted, her voice carrying across the slope. ‘Form up the dragon’s scales!’ In answer to her cry, the war-drums sounded, bone striking stretched skin in a deep, thudding rhythm. A thousand heavy bronze and wood shields, each the size of the warrior wielding them, were slammed down onto the hard-packed soil of the slope. The spikes that lined the bottom of each shield bit into the earth and anchored the barrier even as the shield-wielders crouched low at the barked order of the ajal in command, bracing the shields with their bodies. The ajal roared out another command and the second line of men stepped forwards, extending the pitch-hardened wooden stakes they held over the top of the shields. The heads of the stakes were equipped with bronze cross-pieces, to prevent the surprisingly durable orcs from pulling themselves down the length of the spear. The Strigoi had learned over the decades that the best way to handle the urka was from a distance. Pin them and butcher them at leisure.

  The drums continued to thunder dully as the Strigoi battle-line settled into the position they would hold for the entirety of the battle to come. There would be no retreat. ‘Curious strategy,’ Vorag grunted, eyeing the line. He was already mounted and his frame trembled with eagerness.

  ‘Cathay is a curious place,’ Neferata replied. Drilling the rambunctious Strigoi in Cathayan military manoeuvres had been a battle in and of itself – one she had only accomplished by pricking Abhorash’s vanity. She needed soldiers, not warriors. He had grasped the tactics and strategies of the armies of the east and adapted them to the Strigoi’s more brutal methods of warfare with instinctive ease, and she suspected that Abhorash had spent some time in Cathay, though he never admitted to such.

  Indeed, Abhorash rarely spoke to her at all. He kept to his men, training his armoured riders in the arts of the Arabyan Kontoi and the Khazag riders of the eastern steppes, crafting an elite core for Ushoran’s growing army. She wasn’t offended. Far from it, in fact; the further Abhorash stayed away from her, the better. She knew the others felt the same way, especially W’soran. Abhorash’s honour was an anchor around all of their necks. It weighed them down and reminded them of what they had once had, and what they would never have.

  ‘The orcs are a flood, Timagal Vorag,’ she continued. ‘We must let them bleed themselves on our rocks rather than attempt to match them, savagery for savagery.’

  ‘As long as I get a taste of that blood,’ Vorag growled.

  ‘Have no fear in that regard,’ she said. Neferata swept her sword out, and the drums thudded. The third rank stepped forwards, raising their bows. The Strigoi bows were stubby recurved things, meant to be fired from horseback at the gallop. Crafted from wood, horn and sinew and bound together with animal glue, they possessed a startling punch for their size. She jabbed the air and the archers reared back, aiming upwards.

  ‘You remember the plan?’ she said, not looking at Vorag.

  ‘Of course,’ he grunted. ‘Have no fear, Neferata. The Bloodytooth will not fail you.’ He snapped his reins and wheeled his horse about. In moments, Vorag’s riders began moving back around the hill, secreting themselves in the thick trees. Neferata raised her sword, letting the iron catch the moonlight.

  The valley had become a vast, seething ocean of green beneath the moon. There were thousands of them, like ants fleeing an ant hill. Larger shapes moved through the tide, carried on savage currents – giants and trolls and howling, shrieking crimson things that were more fungus than beast.

  Neferata’s sword dropped. Bows twanged and a solid cloud of arrows momentarily blotted out the moon. The horde below heaved like a wounded animal biting its flank.

  ‘That got their attention,’ Stregga said.

  ‘And now we need to keep it,’ Neferata said, raising her sword again. Two more volleys followed the first, and the mass of orcs disintegrated, a huge wave breaking off from the main body to crash towards the slope where the Strigoi waited. Neferata hissed. There were more of them than she had thought. She cast a calculating eye over the battle-line. The Strigoi were orc-fighters without peer, save for perhaps the dwarfs, but even they could be overwhelmed.

  ‘Sanzak, get them ready,’ Neferata said. The ajal in charge of the closest section of the line nodded; his eyes were red in the gloom. He was one of Vorag’s get and bore his master’s brute stamp upon his features. He began snarling out orders as the first line of Strigoi readied themselves, and his commands were echoed up and down the line by his fellow ajals. The men stank of nervousness and battle-lust. Neferata waited just behind the line. She signalled for another volley.

  Orcs fell even as they ascended the slope, but the creatures pressed forwards. Their green flesh daubed with savage azure tattoos and hideous war-whoops on their lips, the orcs were a terrifying sight. They struggled up the hill hour after hour in a wave of grunting, howling bodies, each one striving to be the first to reach the crest of the hill where the Strigoi waited for them. The stakes were heavy with brackish orc blood and the men wielding them were exhausted. Replacements scrambled into position beneath the shields, to give their wielders a moment to rest.

  Momentum alone would have carried the orcs up and over eventually, despite the rain of arrows that cut through their ranks time and again, and that same momentum would carry them over the line of spearmen. They were stubborn creatures, fond of battle and inured to setback.

  The only hope in thwarting an orc charge was, therefore, to surprise them.

  ‘We’re running low on arrows,’ Sanzak called out.

  ‘Not surprising,’ Stregga muttered. ‘If we can’t keep them off the line, they’ll roll right over us.’

  ‘I know. Now it’s our turn,’ Neferata said, looking at Layla. The girl bared her fangs and drew her sword with a flourish. Without another word, Neferata charged down the slope and leapt into the air, her sword flashing out. An orc’s howl was cut short as her blade separated its head from its shoulders. As she landed, she gutted a second, nose wrinkling at the stench of its spilling innards. Crude stone weapons shattered as they struck against the armour she wore. Spinning, she bisected another of the brutes.

  Neferata spun, and orcs died. Nearby, Stregga copied her mistress’s action and bounded down the slope, unleashing months of repressed savagery on the hapless greenskins. The vampire shrieked wordlessly as her sword licked out, lopping off limbs and heads with abandon.

  Layla was, if anything, even more vicious than the other vampire. Her flesh rippled, sprouting a coat of thick, dark hair, and her skull elongated into something more vulpine than human as she crashed into th
e orcs, singing a Strigoi death-song. Her claws raked out, gutting a goblin even as she cut an orc in two at the waist with her blade.

  Several of the ajal followed suit, the Strigoi bounding out of the shield-line with red-eyed eagerness. They fought like animals, wielding massive hammers and swords that pulped bone and meat alike. All in all, a dozen vampires had crashed into the orcs and within moments they were wading through corpses and blood in a savage frenzy.

  But savage as it was, it wasn’t enough. Neither did it need to be. Neferata raised her sword as high as she could, and the drums set to with a ferocity that even outdid that of the orcs. Moments later, with a howling cry, Vorag’s riders broke from cover and charged. The horses sprang across the slope speedily, their hooves setting the ground to trembling.

  ‘Back,’ Neferata shouted. ‘Fall back!’ The vampires broke away from the fighting and scrambled back towards the line of shields as the horsemen rode into the fray. The riders howled and roared, and the bows in their hands peppered the orc flank raggedly. Orcs fell, struck by dozens of arrows. Other riders, led by Vorag, carried heavy-bladed spears which dipped and punctured green flesh. But the Strigoi had other tricks than just these.

  On each horse’s haunch was a tough fibre net. At Vorag’s bellowed command, his men slashed the nets and let what they contained tumble in their mounts’ wakes. Soon, each horse was dragging a web of chains and thick ropes ending in spiked bars, hooks and blades which clattered loudly as the horsemen neared the orcs.

  As Vorag’s riders struck the flank, they did not slow. Instead, they urged their horses to greater speed and rode on, leaving a path of carnage in their wake. The blades and bars jumped and swung as the horses galloped and smashed into the orcs, knocking them off their feet or shredding them where they stood. A full two hundred riders struck the orc flank like a wedge of death and the orcs were ripped apart with almost clinical brutality, sectioned off from the main horde and dissected.