Gotrek and Felix: The Serpent Queen

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘I don’t suppose you have any water or bandages?’ Felix asked hesitantly.

  Zabbai thumped the deck with the haft of her axe. On the lower deck, a gong was sounded. In moments, several mummified women appeared, carrying golden bowls filled with sweet-smelling liquid and bandages. Felix eyed the women nervously. Like Zabbai, they were clad in spotted animal skins and thin robes, and they wore golden jewellery and death-masks of pale, oven-fired clay. ‘Do not be afraid. They are my handmaidens, and they will see to your hurts,’ Zabbai said. She looked at Gotrek. ‘And yours as well.’

  ‘I need no help,’ Gotrek said.

  ‘It is not for your benefit. You are bleeding on my deck, and that offends me.’

  Gotrek grunted, but didn’t reply. Felix inclined his head. ‘I thank you, great lady.’

  Zabbai looked at him. Felix couldn’t repress a shiver. ‘I am no lady,’ she said. ‘I am the Queen’s Champion, the Spear of Asaph, and the Swift, Sudden Judgement. But I am certainly no lady.’ Though he could detect no emotion in those words, Felix couldn’t help but feel that Zabbai smiled beneath her mask. He hesitated, but decided to throw caution to the wind.

  ‘While I am grateful, I can’t help but wonder what’s going on,’ he said, carefully not looking at Gotrek. As he spoke, Zabbai’s handmaidens began to dress his wounds with delicate fingers.

  Despite the gentleness of their touch, Felix shuddered as the dry, dead fingers glided over his wounds. Another handmaiden gently eased the arrows from Gotrek’s flesh, dropping each into a bowl filled with water and incense. Gotrek kept his gaze fixed on the horizon. The dwarf seemed determined to ignore them all.

  ‘What is going on is not your concern,’ a voice interjected. Felix turned, and saw a wizened shape climb the stairs to the high deck with the aid of a staff. The new arrival was a shrivelled thing, empty of fluid, if not vitality. Dead flesh the colour of dried leather was shrunk tight against yellowing bones beneath a frayed and tattered robe, which had once been fine. Decorations of gold and turquoise dangled against a shrunken chest and armlets meant for living limbs sagged and rattled on bony arms.

  The dead man wore no mask, and his shrivelled features contorted as he took in Gotrek and Felix. ‘The concerns of the dead are not those of the living. Thus spoke Settra the Imperishable in the first golden hour of the Reign of Millions of Years,’ the liche intoned. Air wheezed eerily through his cracked and fleshless jaws. Eyes like twin embers fixed first on Felix, and then on Gotrek. ‘Then, you are not truly alive are you, Child of the Mountains?’

  Gotrek frowned and he fixed the dead man with a sullen look. ‘What would you know of it, liche?’

  ‘Djubti knows much. So he claims at every available opportunity, at length,’ Zabbai said. Yes, that’s definitely humour, Felix thought, obscurely pleased. If the dead had humour, then perhaps they weren’t that different from the living.

  Djubti shot a look at Zabbai, and then said, ‘You are as dead as we, for you do not live. You merely persist, in search of a proper place to lay your bones, Son of Stone.’ Djubti’s gaze flickered towards Felix. ‘You, however, burn with life. Offensively so,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you?’ Felix said.

  Djubti ignored him. He looked back at Gotrek. ‘Your search is at an end, Doom-Seeker.’

  Gotrek blinked. Then he grinned. ‘Is it now? Well, things are looking up aren’t they?’ He looked at Felix. ‘Hear that, manling? The bag of bones says I’m going to find my doom.’

  ‘Yes, wonderful. If I can’t ask what’s going on, can I at least ask where we’re going?’ Felix said, looking from one dead face to the next.

  ‘Lybaras,’ Zabbai said. She thumped the deck with her axe again. ‘Lybaras, City of the Asp, Lybaras the Magnificent, Lybaras Which Guards the Sea.’ She looked at him, the sunlight glinting off her. ‘The Serpent Queen wishes to speak with you.’

  Chapter 7

  In her chamber at the top of the ziggurat, Nitocris stirred the blood in the clay bowl with one long finger. In its murky depths she could see portents and happenings, possibilities and potentialities. The strands of webs yet to be woven, as her mistress had taught her. She had been taught more besides; strategy was like a recipe, requiring all of the ingredients to be in place, lest what came of it be inedible. Nitocris had never cooked in her life. She’d had slaves for that. But she understood the concept.

  She lay on her bier, the bowl on the floor within easy reach. With her chin resting on one forearm, she dipped a finger into the blood and raised it up, sending glistening droplets plop-plop-plopping back into the bowl. In the ripples, worlds were born and died.

  The blood had come from the body of one of the lizards who haunted the interior. It had been a small thing, to hold so much blood, with soft, wet scales and a colourful crest atop its triangular head. It was no taller than her knee, and had been clad in golden ornaments, feathers and bronze armour. The latter had been stripped from it, and left in the mud outside the temple complex, where it had been caught spying. They had been watching her since her army had occupied the Temple of Skulls, though she couldn’t say why. She didn’t particularly care, at that. Her prey was an asp, after all, not a lizard.

  In the swirling ripples of dark liquid, she saw victory and defeat, smashed skulls and sunlit doom. She saw the sands stained red and the jungles blacken in fire. But she did not see Lahmia, and she growled softly. A whisper of sound made her look up. One of her handmaidens swept into the chamber.

  She wore not robes, but leather armour and a cloak of feathers and scales. She sank to her knees before the bier and waited, head bowed. ‘Speak, Andraste,’ Nitocris purred.

  ‘The Mangrove Port is gone, my queen,’ the vampire said, her eyes still on the floor. In life, Andraste had been the concubine of a nomad chieftain, before Nitocris had taken her and raised her up as a captain in her armies. She had battled lizards, greenskins and tribes of the interior with equal vigour, and brought herself esteem with her viciousness and cunning. ‘The servants of the Asp burned it to the roots.’

  ‘Ah,’ Nitocris said. She hesitated, and then asked, ‘Survivors?’

  ‘Some, but they are singularly useless creatures,’ Andraste said.

  Nitocris laughed and propped herself up. ‘Is that opinion or fact?’

  ‘They are wild, hungry and stupid,’ Andraste said. ‘It would be best to dispose of them, before they become a problem.’

  ‘No,’ Nitocris said, lying down on her back. She examined the moon and the black sky above and stretched slowly, enjoying the feel of her muscles’ pull. ‘They have some use yet, now that they’ve provided a handy distraction. The brothers – are they dead?’

  ‘Two are.’

  ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that it was the big, stupid one who survived,’ Nitocris said. She held up her hand. In the moonlight it was almost translucent, and she watched the play of veins and muscles beneath her skin. The necromancer was right when she claimed that there was a sort of beauty in the dead, or some of them, at any rate. Nitocris had been frozen at the height of her beauty and power. She was the epitome of might made eternal. She was the immortal Serpent Queen, who would wrap the rebellious dead of the sandy wastes in her coils and squeeze them into servitude, and then she would slither into the world beyond, to see and do as she wished. The thought of it held her for a moment, and she could smell the wet stones of Altdorf and the harsh fire-powders of Nuln. An eternity of experiences awaited her, and to taste them, all she had to do was do what she did best. Nitocris would conquer and destroy, and then be free to do something, anything else.

  ‘It was Sigmund,’ Octavia said, from the shadows of the chamber. Nitocris frowned as her daydreams blew apart like sand on the breeze. Andraste whirled about, one hand flying to the wide, Cathayan blade sheathed on her hip, even as her lips peeled back from her fangs. Octavia held up a hand, and a flare of cold flame suddenly wreathed her fingers. Andraste shied back, hissing.

  ‘Enough,’ Nitocris said.
>
  Octavia closed her fingers and snuffed the flame. She looked at Nitocris. ‘It was Sigmund who survived,’ she repeated, ‘and only barely, at that.’

  ‘Which one was Sigmund? Was he the small one?’ Nitocris said. She smiled crookedly and rolled over to face Octavia. ‘I liked him. He was funny.’

  ‘No, he was not the small one. Or the big one, my queen,’ Octavia said, her voice calm.

  ‘Oh,’ Nitocris said. She rose into a sitting position and swung her legs off the bier. ‘He’s the smart one, then.’ She slid to her feet and swayed towards Octavia. ‘I should have known.’ She circled the necromancer slowly. ‘Smart men can’t be trusted, you know.’

  ‘You are most puissant, my queen,’ Octavia said, not looking at her.

  Nitocris hesitated. She didn’t know what that word meant. The necromancer used so many foreign words, and new words for old things, that Nitocris found it hard to understand her sometimes. Rage flared in her as she caught sight of a twitch in Octavia’s cheek. The necromancer was laughing at her. Her claws extended from her fingers, but she resisted the urge to part the soft flesh of Octavia’s cheek. It would be satisfying, but only for a moment, and it would be a defeat, of sorts. And the latter she could not countenance. Nitocris had never been defeated, and she never would be – certainly not by a creature like Octavia. Instead, she stepped back and smiled. ‘Is that what they say in Altdorf?’

  Octavia blinked and looked at her. ‘Among other things,’ she said.

  Nitocris reached out and caught Octavia’s chin between her thumb and forefinger. ‘You will take me to Altdorf, when this is over. When the false queen kneels before us, when my mistress once again sits upon the throne of Lahmia, you will take me to Altdorf and show me the lands of the dry forests and cold mountains, won‘t you?’

  ‘If you wish it, my queen,’ Octavia said softly.

  ‘I do,’ Nitocris said, pulling Octavia close. When they were only a few breaths apart, she murmured, ‘You will show me everything I wish to see, Octavia of Altdorf.’ This close, she could taste the dark magics that constantly crackled and sparked invisibly about the necromancer. She could trace the old scars that lined Octavia’s cheeks and chin beneath the skull-face tattoo that hid her features from the world. Scars were stories, her mother had said, of victories won and battles lost. A person without scars was not a person, empty and devoid of meaning or purpose. What is your purpose, necromancer, she thought. What drives you?

  She could smell it, like lightning on the air in the wake of a storm. It was sharp and hot and consuming, and familiar. Whatever passion drove the necromancer, it did so as hard as her own. She leaned close, and her lips brushed Octavia’s ear as she said, ‘For now, show me your brother.’

  She released the necromancer and allowed her to step back. She could hear the reedy, nervous thrum of the living woman’s heartbeat and smell her sudden confusion. You are smart but stupid, Nitocris thought. Is it any wonder one such as you prefers the silent dead?

  Octavia turned without a word and left the chamber. Nitocris padded in her wake, Andraste following protectively behind her. She could sense the other vampire’s displeasure. Andraste was one of those who had little use for the living woman, and viewed her less as an asset than a rival. Nitocris could have assuaged her concerns, but it suited her to keep her sisters wrong-footed. It was in their nature to plot and scheme, for such was the power in their blood. To see all possibilities, and to attempt to act on the best, was as natural for the Sisterhood of the Silver Pinnacle as breathing had once been. Loyalty only lasted so long, beneath the relentless tides of ambition and cunning. Thus, she played their desires one against the next in a quiet symphony of confusion. She chose her favourites at random, and let them slip from favour just as randomly.

  Andraste was on top at the moment, and though she played the loyal executioner, she was anything but. But her relentless scheming kept the rest of them occupied and, if nothing else, it kept them alert.

  The smell of the jungle wafted over her as she stepped out onto the plateau of the ziggurat. The hot miasma was punctuated by the tang of fires, and the complex echoed with the sounds of industry. There were ships to be made seaworthy and the waiting corpse-legions to be armed and armoured. Her army would be ready to march within days, and a shiver of anticipation coursed through her. The pleasure of that thought faded as she caught sight of the slumped form, on its knees between two of her handmaidens. She could smell the sour taint of vampire-blood on the air, and the bedraggled figure of Sigmund Steyr oozed exhaustion. It took a lot to weaken their kind, but then, he hadn’t been feeding regularly. Broken arrows jutted from him, and barely healed wounds showed through the great rents in his ruined armour. Where his skin wasn’t streaked with blood, it was burned black, and he was missing most of his hair. Despite this, he met her gaze challengingly when she stretched out one sandaled foot to hook his chin and lift his head. ‘So, you yet live,’ she mused.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ he croaked.

  She retracted her foot and nodded to one of the handmaidens who stood to either side of him. The vampire smiled and grabbed what was left of his scalp and jerked his head back. She then drew her blade and pressed its edge against his throat. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have your head removed, and your body tossed to the ghouls.’

  ‘It seems a bit of a waste,’ he said, licking his blistered lips.

  Nitocris looked down at him silently. In truth, he had done exactly as she’d hoped. Otherwise she’d have simply put him and his brothers down the minute they rose from the pile of drained corpses they’d been tossed on after her sisters had had their way with them. Instead, she‘d sent them away, to wreak havoc along the coasts and draw any eyes that might be watching after them. She knew the dry dead of old, and knew that they had eyes everywhere possible. It wouldn’t have been long before they’d noticed the drifting, dead-crewed hulks sliding up river. So she’d given them something else to look at, something obvious and vicious and within tempting reach.

  It had worked, and even better than she’d hoped. For when the fleet of Lybaras had set sail to hunt down her distraction, so too had the fleet of Mahrak. The dry dead of the sands were ever at war with one another, renewing in death the rivalries that they had had in life. The Mangrove Port had been in waters claimed by Mahrak, for all that no soldier of the City of Decay had ever set foot anywhere on the Shifting Mangrove Coast, in life or in death. The tensions between the two cities, never far from the surface, had been stirred once more.

  The eyes of her enemies would be upon one another, now, rather than her jungles. And that meant that she could strike, without fear of obstacles. ‘A waste,’ she repeated, looking down at Steyr. He had been a handsome enough man, in life, though he was looking distinctly the worse for wear now. Hard used, but not used up. Not quite. ‘Yes, perhaps it would be, at that.’ She glanced at Octavia, who met her gaze without flinching. As ever, there was no challenge there, no resistance to her will. The necromancer’s mind might as well have been a placid jungle pool. But Nitocris knew that there were monsters beneath those still waters. And they were waiting to strike. She smiled at the thought, relishing it. She had fought monsters before, and broken them to her will. The necromancer would be no different.

  Octavia fought to control her expression as Nitocris turned away and said, ‘I may yet have use for you, man. Lick your wounds and stay out of my sight, until I call for you.’ She turned to level a hot gaze upon Octavia. ‘I am sure your sister will see to your needs.’

  Octavia bowed, but said nothing. What was there to say? This was the beginning of a new game, and they both knew it.

  When Fiducci had taught her about vampires, that had been his first lesson. Vampires lied. They always lied. Or if they did not lie, they bent the truth into new and creative shapes. And they never, ever did anything save that it benefit them in some fashion. The question was, how did leaving her brother alive benefit them? Was his continued existence
a reward or a warning?

  Nitocris examined her, as if reading her thoughts. Octavia bowed again, and the slightest hint of a cruel smile tugged at the corners of the vampire’s mouth. Seemingly satisfied, Nitocris swept back to her bier, followed by her handmaidens, leaving Octavia and her brother alone on the ziggurat. She looked down at him. ‘I sent warning,’ she said softly. The cats she’d sent had returned not long before Nitocris’s warriors had escorted her brother back to the temple, and brought with them images of what had occurred. It was a difficult trick, seeing through the eyes of the dead, but one she had mastered early.

  If she willed it, she could see through the eyes of everything she had called to her with the drums, which even now still pounded, be they flesh, bone or spirit. She could see all that they saw and all at once, though she was hesitant to try it. Her mind could carry a heavy load, but that was pushing her limits.

  ‘It seems that it did not reach us in time,’ Steyr coughed. He placed a hand on his knee and pushed himself to his feet. She went to him. He stank of the swamp and unmarked graves, and she closed her eyes and pressed her face tight to his chest. He stroked her hair with a gentleness that belied his strength. ‘I was so close. Our fleet was coming along nicely,’ he murmured. ‘In a few more months, we would have sailed around the coast and up that blasted river, and torn this foul edifice down around her ears.’

  Octavia stiffened and stepped back. She looked at him, and saw that he was acting the vampire now, arrogant and brutal and thirsty. It was like a shroud over his personality, and she could sense it vibrating darkly. There was a predatory quiver to vampires, a subtle and sinister formula that rose through the Corpse Geometries to dominate and twist the pattern.