True to form, most of the orcs momentarily retreated from the slope as they sought to come to grips with the horsemen. Neferata could almost admire how quickly the creatures adapted to changing situations. She lazily blocked a spear-thrust from one of the remaining brutes and looked around. There were only a few dozen of the creatures close to the Strigoi lines. The rest were heading back for Vorag’s riders with eager roars and bellows. The spear-wielding orc lunged for her again and she chopped her sword down, splitting its skull.
Stregga snarled as Vorag’s horse went down with a burst skull, courtesy of a lucky blow. The Strigoi hit the ground and rolled to his feet in a cloud of dust, even as an orc mounted on a snorting boar charged towards him, spear levelled. Vorag deftly avoided the spear and swept his arms wide as the beast rushed towards him. He caught the boar around its neck and veins bulged black in his pale flesh as he wrenched the beast up in mid-gallop and flung it over his shoulder, snapping its spine in the process. The boar fell, spilling its rider, and Vorag pounced, jaws agape.
The battle lost cohesion moments later, devolving into a swirling melee. The signal drums thundered, calling for the horsemen to retreat as they’d planned, but to no avail. Their blood was up and it was all the ajals on the slope could do to keep the ranks from charging into the fray.
Neferata swung the flat of her blade out, striking the shield of one of the men, and snarled. ‘Back,’ she snapped. ‘Get back or lose your head! Get them in line!’ The men fell back in haste, resuming their positions, their faces white with fear as their vampire masters snarled and snapped at them.
Satisfied that order had been restored, Neferata scanned the melee. If they could find the creatures’ war-chief, they might be able to bring an end to the battle in one stroke. The former wasn’t difficult. Orcs were simple creatures, with simple desires. They wanted the biggest, loudest fight they could find, and they’d kill each other to get it. Right now, that fight was Vorag.
Neferata couldn’t help but admire the way the Strigoi fought. He lacked the precision of Abhorash or the sadism inherent in Ushoran’s tactics. Instead, Vorag fought like an animal unleashed. His size seemed to increase as he waded through the orcs that sought to pull him down. His body swelled hideously, his arms and shoulders bulging with muscle. He stabbed an orc through the head with a shattered spear and swept the body out, knocking another creature aside. His face wrinkled into a bestial grimace, his lips rolling back from needle-studded gums. Claws sprouted from his fingers and he ripped apart his enemies with wild abandon.
Pulling a squalling orc in half, Vorag threw back his head and howled. A moment later, a ground-rattling bellow echoed in reply and sent orcs scrambling as something massive thrust its way through the press that now surrounded Vorag. A saw-edged blade the length of Neferata’s leg smashed down, digging a trench in the rock of the slope and forcing Vorag to skip backwards. The orc boss was bigger than three men and its red, piggy eyes were bright with feral bloodlust. It bellowed again as its eyes fastened on Vorag. The big blade snapped out, and he sank down and it sliced the air above his head. Vorag roared and flung himself on the orc.
Neferata couldn’t identify the beast; there were dozens of bosses among the Waaagh!, each with their own tribes. This one was bigger than most, however. ‘Can he handle it?’ she said, looking at Stregga. Stregga didn’t reply. She watched the fight, her teeth bared and her eyes wide as she drank it in. Neferata growled and slapped her. ‘Stregga! Can he win?’
Stregga shook her head. ‘I-I don’t know,’ she grunted. Moments later, Vorag was knocked to the ground by a sweep of the orc’s arm. The creature roared and raised its blade over the stunned vampire.
Neferata cursed. If Vorag lost his head here, her plans would be endangered. It might take centuries to groom another capable of heading a revolt. Centuries she might not have. Hurry, Neferata! The stars spin faster and faster as dust is stirred by hollow winds. You will be a queen again and you will rule over silent, perfect cities, but only if you hurry, the voice purred at the back of her head. Annoyed, she shook it aside. A moment later she was moving, driving her own sword into the orc’s unarmoured torso.
It howled in agony. A green hand fastened on her head as she tried to pull her blade loose and she was smashed down against the slope. Bone cracked and splintered and blood burst from between her lips in an exhalation of agony. Stregga was there a moment later, hewing through the orc’s arm. The orc reared back, squalling as Layla leapt upon its back and clawed at its eyes.
Neferata pulled herself to her feet, grimacing in pain as her wounds re-knit. She lunged upwards, her teeth snapping together in the meat of the beast’s throat. With a jerk of her head, she tore its throat out. It toppled backwards, and she rode it down, crouching on it. Gagging, she spat out the foul-tasting lump of meat and hissed at the orcs who had stopped to watch the fight. Stregga joined her, snarling like a hungry tigress.
Clutching her wounds, Neferata shrieked. The sound of it echoed across the slope, bouncing from tree to rock. One by one, slowly at first, then faster and faster, the orc advance became a retreat. The green wave reversed itself and began to wash downhill, back into the valley below. The Strigoi sent a farewell of arrows to keep the orcs moving in the right direction.
The slaughter lasted for what seemed like hours and the darkness began to slip into the purple of dawn as it ended. Wazzakaz’s horde had been cut into thirds and reduced from a juggernaut to something substantially less intimidating. The slope was carpeted in the bodies of slain orcs.
‘Beautiful,’ Vorag said, trotting towards them. The big vampire grinned widely and leered at Stregga, looking none the worse for wear despite the blood that coated him head to toe. ‘I couldn’t have done it better myself!’
‘No, you couldn’t have,’ Stregga said, wiping her mouth.
Neferata spat – she could still taste the bitter tang of the orc’s blood. ‘Did you send riders?’ she said. Her wounds had healed, though the ghost-ache of bones broken earlier lingered.
‘Yes and the stunted ones are ready. We should be able to – there!’ Vorag gestured. The brass-banded dragon-horns of the dwarfs harrowed the frosty dawn air from their position far down in the valley. The orcs no longer had the numbers to beat the throng; they would be annihilated. Vorag rubbed his hands together. ‘Should I take my riders down there, just in case?’ he asked eagerly.
‘No,’ Neferata said. ‘I want you to stay put. We’ll need you and your riders fresh for the morrow.’
‘Why, what’s tomorrow?’
‘The dwarfs don’t pursue beaten foes. The orcs will flee. We need to grind them up and ensure that it takes generations for them to ever prove a threat again.’ Neferata kicked a dead orc and glared down into its slack features. ‘It may take days or months, but we need them beaten.’
‘But–’ Vorag began. Neferata looked at him. The other vampire grimaced and looked away, unwilling to match her gaze. ‘Fine,’ he grunted. ‘What now?’
‘We wait,’ Neferata said. ‘We let the dwarfs wet their axes as we promised. We’ll need to send a rider to Ushoran, to let him know how we’ve fared here.’ She smiled slightly at the look on Vorag’s face. ‘He will become suspicious, otherwise. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?’ Her smile grew wider and she added, ‘At least, not until it’s too late.’
ELEVEN
The City of Bel Aliad
(–1149 Imperial Reckoning)
The dead fought in silence, their weapons rising and falling with monotonous ferocity. They hacked their way through the living warriors of Bel Aliad without slowing or stopping, and those that fell were replaced by their victims in time.
Arkhan the Black watched it all from the roof of the temple of the ghoul-god, and found it good. Or so Neferata assumed. The withered liche-thing barely resembled the man she had once known and… What? She pushed the thought aside. That was in the dim past and this was t
he present and here and now, Arkhan endangered everything she had built.
‘You can’t do this,’ she said, approaching him.
‘Neferata,’ Arkhan said in his hollow voice. ‘You still live.’
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘No,’ Arkhan said. Bones rustled as he turned, his glowing gaze sweeping over her without apparent emotion. ‘Does this city hold some special place in your heart?’
‘No,’ Neferata said. Her armour hung from her body in ragged scraps; it had been battered and torn by Arkhan’s bodyguards as she had killed them. In the ruins of her once great temple, her followers battled his, even as her enemies battled the dead in the streets. It was a war on three fronts, fought by three armies. She raised the notched and dull khopesh she held and pointed it at him. ‘But it is mine nonetheless. You will not take it from me.’
‘Would you match your strength against mine?’ Arkhan said. ‘You ran from Nagash. Am I so much less fearsome?’
‘Infinitely,’ she said.
‘Nagash is dead,’ Arkhan said suddenly.
Neferata hesitated. ‘What?’
‘He is dead.’
‘Did you–’
Arkhan made a rasping, wheezing noise she took to be laughter. ‘No. And neither did your old friend W’soran.’ The glowing eyes dulled slightly. ‘It was Alcadizzar.’
Neferata closed her eyes, just for a moment. The pain was faint now, but it was there. She swallowed it down. ‘Is he...?’
‘I know not. Nor, in truth, do I care,’ Arkhan said. ‘Nagash is gone and I have been driven from Khemri. I need a new fortress, a new place to rebuild my strength before my opponents follow me.’
‘Your opponents – who were they? Nagash killed everyone!’ Neferata said. She knew even as she asked what the answer would be. She had known since that night where the sky turned green and the dead had grown restless in the burial vaults.
‘The Great Land is a land of the dead now. They rule it in the darkness even as they did beneath the sun.’ Arkhan used two fingers to push aside her blade. ‘The tombs of the mighty gape wide and the war-chariots of Settra rumble to war.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Yes, he brought them back. All of them unto the first generation,’ Arkhan intoned. ‘And they are angry, Neferata. They curse my name even as they curse Nagash’s… and yours.’
‘What?’ Neferata said, shaken.
Arkhan lunged, swatting aside her sword and grabbing her wrist. He pulled her to him, his skull pressed close to her face. ‘They hate you. All of the dead of Lahmia hate you. They want to punish you and all your court for your crimes. And her voice is the loudest of all.’
‘Her?’
‘The little hawk,’ Arkhan whispered, and his words were like a knife sliding across her sensitive flesh. ‘Khalida of Lybaras hunts once more, Neferata, and she is coming even now across the sands of the Great Desert.’ He grabbed her chin. ‘And she is coming for you…’
The City of Mourkain
(–350 Imperial Reckoning)
They returned to Mourkain under cover of darkness.
Neferata rode through dark streets, and was reminded of times long past, and another city that held its breath by night. Rasha and Layla rode close behind her. Stregga, of course, had stayed with Vorag, who was in no hurry to return to Mourkain. Instead, he intended to visit the other frontier nobles. Men, like him, who were kept at arm’s length from the centres of power. Men who, like him, all had among their trains Neferata’s handmaidens, though most knew it not, thinking them mere concubines, or priestesses or slaves.
In contrast to how long it had taken to subvert the religions of Strigos, it had taken no time at all to take swift and decisive control of the burgeoning slave trade. Now, her followers controlled the flow of slaves from the west and the north and of the latter, those who met a certain set of requirements were culled and sent to Mourkain to receive Neferata’s blessings. As a result, her handmaidens numbered over a hundred these days, their numbers only exceeded by those of Ushoran’s get.
Sometimes she felt a faint sense of displeasure at the thought of employing so many in such a capacity. She had taken living creatures, women much like she had once been, and turned them from beings with their own destinies into playing pieces on a board whose parameters she was still, as yet, uncertain of. But those thoughts were few and far between. Mostly, she concerned herself with the humming strands of plot and counter-plot that stretched from her black brain. With the orcs broken, the trade routes had blossomed into full flower, bringing new blood from the west into the lands of the Strigoi. She had spent almost a century seeing to it, visiting the wildling tribes and those from farther west whose representatives had heard of Strigos and wished to see its power up close.
But rather than exploiting that strength, Neferata had instead undermined it. She had moved from tribe to tribe, spreading not the story of Mourkain’s majesty, but of its frailty. She had whispered of the decadence of its rulers, of the weakness of its armies, and of the great wealth which it had, but did not deserve.
She smiled slightly. The Draesca had wasted little time; the wildling tribes had already begun asserting their control of the rough country and taking what could charitably be called more than their fair share of the wealth from the trade routes. Too, the Draesca had begun to eye the Draka and the other large tribes askance. Ushoran was not the only would-be emperor in these mountains.
It would be war soon enough. A few years perhaps, maybe a decade, and by then the wild tribes would have become less wild and thus more dangerous to Strigos, which had already begun to stagnate in its superiority. She could almost smell the rot; she sniffed, tasting… ‘Blood,’ she said, suddenly alert.
‘The air is thick with it,’ Rasha murmured, riding just behind her.
Layla sniffed. ‘Why is it so quiet? What is going on?’
‘Halt!’
Iron-capped spear-butts thumped on the street as the armoured warriors moved into the open. They wore fur cloaks to protect themselves from the night’s chill, and their armour was chipped and black. ‘Curfew, strangers… Do you have a reason for being out tonight?’ one grunted.
‘Curfew, is it?’ Neferata said, pulling back her hood. The watchmen seemed to hiss collectively. They knew her face. There was no woman in Mourkain who looked like Neferata, though many aped her style. ‘On whose orders, I wonder?’
‘Hetman Ushoran, my lady,’ the watchman stuttered. ‘From sunset to sunrise, all citizens are to remain indoors.’
Neferata urged her horse closer. ‘Why?’ she said, holding the man’s eyes with her own. Rasha and Layla joined her.
‘Spies, my lady,’ Naaima said. Neferata looked up. Her handmaiden stood across from the watchmen. She had arrived silently. Or perhaps she had been waiting for them. ‘I am glad to see you back. We need no escort,’ Naaima added, touching one of the men on the arm. ‘Continue about your business and be assured that your superiors shall hear of your dedication.’ The man saluted gratefully and the whole lot slid around and past the mounted vampires with as much speed as the dignity of their office could allow. Neferata watched them go before turning back to her handmaiden.
‘I see events have occurred in my absence,’ she said.
‘Someone tried to kill Ushoran,’ Naaima said bluntly. ‘He’s blamed us. He has Anmar.’
‘What?’ Neferata snapped, jerking on her horse’s reins. The animal whinnied and lashed at the air with its hooves. ‘Explain yourself!’
‘His paranoia has become a force unto itself,’ Naaima said. She extended a hand and Neferata swung her up onto her horse. Naaima settled behind her, clutching her mistress. She answered Neferata’s next question before she had a chance to ask it. ‘It was not us.’
‘Good,’ Neferata said simply, urging her horse into motion. The others followed closely. Perhaps Khaled
has learned from his blunders in Bel Aliad after all, she thought darkly. ‘Who was it, then? Was it W’soran?’
‘I don’t know. I suspect so. It doesn’t matter. He has her. He wanted to see you as soon as you arrived,’ Naaima said.
‘Where is Khaled? Did he have nothing to say about this?’ Neferata growled. Naaima didn’t answer immediately. Neferata tensed. She could sense her handmaiden’s disquiet. ‘What is it?’ she demanded.
‘Khaled is the one who took her,’ Naaima said harshly. ‘He and Ushoran’s guards intervened in a brawl between five of ours and a number of W’soran’s abominations.’
‘What happened?’
‘Four of ours are dead. Anmar was the only survivor. Those creatures… they tore them apart, right in the street. W’soran claims they were resisting his authority.’
‘His authority?’ Neferata spat incredulously. ‘That creature only has as much authority as I deem fit. Khaled as well. He forgets himself if he thinks to put himself at cross-purposes with me.’ Neferata cursed and urged her horse to greater speed. In his years in Ushoran’s bodyguard, the former Arabyan princeling had become too comfortable, she had known that. But it was that very thing which had likely endeared him to Ushoran. Was he merely playing the part she had assigned him? Or was he now truly Ushoran’s dog? It was a question she intended to get an answer to tonight. One of many questions, in fact, that the time had come to have answered.
Since she had learned about the crown of Mourkain, and Ushoran’s desire for it, a number of previously nonsensical elements had fallen into place. She sniffed the air, tasting the dull black skeins of W’soran’s magic. It had permeated the stones of Mourkain over the centuries, like ancient damp rising anew. It tasted different tonight.
Vorag had told her much of Ushoran’s coming, and how Kadon had ruled before then. How Kadon had worn a crown of black metal, but how Ushoran seemed to either disdain it, or have mislaid it. Or, perhaps, he had been denied it.
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