‘Will she ever awaken them?’ Felix asked. He wondered whether they were still conscious, those trapped princes and kings, or whether they had found refuge in dreams or even madness. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.
‘If the city is in danger,’ Zabbai said. ‘Their rage is our weapon, and their legions, our secret. Not even Settra knows how many legions Lybaras’s necropolis holds in its bowels. And nor will he ever, if Khalida has her way.’ She looked at him. ‘That is another reason for this trip. We must smash our enemies, before war forces us to reveal that which we would rather remained hidden.’
‘I find it hard to believe that a sword, no matter how valuable, can prevent an army from marching. Especially an army of dead men,’ Felix said.
Zabbai was silent for a moment. Then, she said, ‘It will not. But it may deliver victory to Lybaras, and that is all that matters, Felix.’
It was the first time she’d used his name.
He hoped it wouldn’t be the last.
Chapter 11
Nitocris watched Octavia examine the sword. It wasn’t the first time that she’d allowed the necromancer to do so, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Nitocris wished to wring free the secrets that were hidden within the pitted length of the ancient blade. It had shed a queen’s blood, by the hand of a queen, and that blood still stained it. It had never been cleaned.
They stood at the top of the temple, on the roof of Nitocris’s chamber, where the drums had been placed. Bloated, mossy corpses beat ceaselessly at the stretched skin drums with gnawed femurs, the dark rhythm echoing out over the temple complex. Drums and drummers both shone with faint phosphorescence, even in the watery light of day. At night, they glowed, like sinister beacons, calling all of the dead of the Southlands home.
Octavia had wanted to examine the blade in the daylight, which Nitocris had grudgingly allowed. She and Andraste stood in the protective shadow of the stretched hide of a great lizard, held aloft by a quartet of dead men, who had pierced the hide with spears and stretched it as wide as it could go. Even with the shade provided by the stretched skin and the thick, dark clouds, which swallowed the sun and spat out thin, weak streams of light, her flesh itched, and the sensation made her irritable. Andraste was even more uncomfortable, and she squirmed in her armour, picking at it and rubbing her arms.
Her queen, the Queen of Mysteries, could walk freely in the light of day. The sun had no more power over her than the moon or the tides. She was separate from the world, and mighty in her isolation. Nitocris longed for such strength. She longed to walk under the sun through the stone plazas of faraway cities, and take her refreshment from the throats of unknown folk. Impatient, she shifted her weight and said, ‘Well?’
‘It can be done,’ Octavia said, without turning to face her. ‘It will not be easy. It will require time, and preparation.’ Her hands passed over the blade without touching it. It was held flat across the palms of a zombie, which twitched slightly as flies crawled in and out of its eye sockets, and maggots ate its body hollow from the inside.
‘How much time?’ Nitocris asked.
‘A few days,’ Octavia said. She turned and added, ‘A week at most.’ When she saw Nitocris’s expression she said, ‘I must fast first, and there are unguents and other assorted tools to be gathered or made. You are asking me to usurp old magic. The dead of Lybaras, of all the tomb-cities, are already bound to a spell. I must find one thread in a wide weave and pluck it loose to pull it tight.’
‘The sword,’ Nitocris said.
‘Will help, yes. The blood on the blade, aged as it is, will help me find the thread, but I must still pluck it and pull it, and that will require great effort.’
‘But you can do it,’ Nitocris said.
‘As I said, it can be done.’
Nitocris heard the unspoken challenge in her words. She tilted her head and studied the necromancer. Even in the weak light of day, ghosts clung to her like children to their mother’s skirts. ‘That is not what I asked,’ she said softly. Beside her, Andraste tensed. If she asked it, her handmaiden would leap into the sun to behead the necromancer, though she might burn in doing so. ‘I asked whether you could do it.’
‘I can,’ Octavia said. Her hand rested on the pommel of her own blade, and her eyes were on Andraste. Nitocris smiled thinly.
‘Will you?’ she said.
Octavia’s eyes slid towards her. ‘I will. I live but to serve you, most magnanimous one,’ she said, bowing shallowly. ‘I live at your behest, and I die at your command.’
Andraste snarled. The sound ripped across the rooftop. Octavia did not flinch, Nitocris was pleased to see. ‘It is wise of you to remember this, Octavia,’ Nitocris said as she waved Andraste to silence. ‘We march tomorrow.’
‘That is not enough time,’ Octavia said. ‘I will not be able to perform the proper rites on the march.’
‘That is why you will stay here,’ Nitocris purred.
‘What?’ Octavia’s face hardened. ‘You promised me.’
In one swift movement, Nitocris was across the roof, and her hand was about Octavia’s throat. Ghosts clawed uselessly at her, and she batted at them in annoyance as she hefted the necromancer and propelled her backwards, towards the edge of the roof.
Her flesh squirmed where the sun touched it, but she had been prepared for the discomfort, and ignored it. The sun no longer had much of a hold on her, though it could destroy her handmaidens. Octavia clawed at her wrist, even as she groped for her blade. Nitocris let her draw it, and then casually swatted it from her hand. It struck the steps below and slid down, well out of reach. ‘I promised you nothing,’ Nitocris growled.
She shook the necromancer slightly, causing the woman’s jaw to click. Her feet dangled over the edge of the roof, and she kicked uselessly. ‘I swore nothing, and offered nothing. You serve me, woman. We are not equals, we are not partners.’ Octavia’s face flushed as Nitocris tightened her grip ever so slightly. She pulled her close, and leaned forwards. ‘You are my dog, woman of Altdorf. You are my pet, to live at my discretion and hunt as I command. Otherwise, I will make you wish I had left you to the tender mercies of the slavers.’
As she spoke, she could feel the necromancer’s will pulsing out to the dead men on the roof, trying to command them. But Nitocris’s will was stronger. She closed off Octavia’s panicked attempts to suborn the zombies, and pressed the woman’s chin to her shoulder. Still holding her by the throat, she stroked her hair and whispered, ‘I am kind to my pets, Octavia. I let you keep your brother, after all, though I have no use for a wretch like him. I let you keep your will, and your legs and your voice, though you need them not to do as I wish. Why must you growl at me so?’
Sudden pain stabbed at her, startling her. A moment of vertigo followed, as images of some other place fluttered across the surface of her mind – blades stabbing down, a red weal of agony, a grimacing one-eyed face and the wet thunk of an axe biting into flesh. She felt the burning caress of the sun, and the crisping of her flesh and hair – no, not hers, but her handmaidens’. They were dying.
Nitocris shrieked and tossed Octavia aside as she clutched at her head. She staggered back towards Andraste and the shade. Andraste reached out to her, and supported her as she fell forwards. ‘My queen, what is it, what has she done to you?’ Andraste said. She drew her sword and made to spring towards Octavia, who clambered to her feet. The necromancer’s eyes widened as Andraste stalked towards her. The weak sunlight drew thin contrails of smoke from the vampire’s flesh, but Andraste paid no heed, intent as she was on taking the necromancer’s head.
But before the first blow could land, a cloaked and cowled figure crashed into her and knocked her sprawling. Through the haze of pain, Nitocris saw Steyr rise to his feet, his body protected from the sun by his hood and cloak. He had no blade, but flexed clawed fingers and emitted a hiss as Andraste got to her feet. She returned the hiss with interest, and swung her blade at him. Steyr dodged back from the blow, his cloak flaring
about him. Andraste lunged after him. Her flesh was pockmarked with burns and she snarled in pain as she cut at the other vampire. ‘I will kill you, if you’ve harmed her,’ Andraste shrieked. ‘I will crack your bones and mount your head on our standard pole.’
Steyr met Andraste’s lunge. He tried to overpower her, but she was more than his equal. Andraste had had centuries to learn her own strength, and Steyr had only the barest drip of years. Her knee caught him in the belly, doubling him over. Her elbow slammed down on his neck, and he dropped flat to the roof. Andraste kicked him onto his back and crouched over him. She raised her blade in both hands and prepared to drive it through his heart.
‘Sheathe your blade, Andraste, it was not her – it was not them. Sheathe your blade,’ Nitocris hissed. Bloody tears ran down her round cheeks. She forced herself erect. ‘Your sisters are dead,’ she said. Andraste sheathed her blade, and bowed her head. Nitocris roughly brushed the blood from her face, smearing it in the process. She had expected to feel the pain of their passing, sooner or later. It was a blessing and a curse of her blood that she could sense the passing of her handmaidens, who all had some small part of her in them.
She had sent three of her best warriors, chosen for their speed and stealth, to Lybaras, to deliver her message of war to the false Serpent Queen. She had allowed them to taste of her blood before they set out for Lybaras, so that she might know when they fell. For their fate had been assured the moment they were chosen – and they had welcomed it, for it was an honour not bestowed lightly. Such had ever been the way among her people, the opening thrust, to spill a bit of blood to season the dust.
Nitocris knew that such a tradition was, in many ways, antithetical to the ways of the Sisterhood of the Silver Pinnacle. To alert the enemy before the battle was considered a grievous error by her sisters, whom she had never met. Her queen had sought to school her in their ways, but while Nitocris had absorbed many of those lessons, others seemed nonsensical. To skulk and strike from the shadows was all well and good, but if the enemy did not know who had made the fatal blow, then what was the point?
She licked blood from her face and said, ‘War has been declared in the proper manner. We march tomorrow, at first dark.’ She waved Andraste away from Steyr. The latter flopped over onto his belly and drew his cloak about himself as he slithered to his sister’s side. She was impressed, despite herself. Steyr’s willingness to place himself in harm’s way for his sister bespoke great loyalty. She had thought him a coward, a beast; perhaps there was a man there, after all.
Andraste eyed him warily. He’d been no match for her, but that he’d got so close, without Andraste noticing him meant he was more dangerous than either she or her handmaiden had thought.
‘And what about me,’ Octavia croaked, rubbing her throat. ‘Are you leaving me here?’
‘Yes,’ Nitocris growled. She gestured to Andraste. ‘Andraste will stay with you, to ensure that you have everything you need. And your brother – your brother will come with me, and serve as my captain.’
‘Captain,’ Steyr said. Octavia felt him stiffen as he said, ‘Captain or hostage?’
‘Both,’ Nitocris said. She had regained her composure quickly. ‘Or neither, if you aggravate me, wretch,’ she added. She examined them with hooded eyes. ‘Think of it as an opportunity to prove your worth to me. At the moment, you only live thanks to your sister, but I grow tired of her incessant demands. I considered taking your head to punish her, but I think I will find more use for you in war. You will lead my vanguard, Sigmund Steyr. You and your loathsome creations shall lead the ghoul-tribes into war, ahead of my legions. If you survive, perhaps there will be a place for you in the world to come. And if you do not – well, at least you died in battle, rather than being slaughtered like a beast.’
Steyr made to retort. Octavia grabbed her brother’s wrist. ‘Quiet,’ she murmured. He looked at her, and then nodded. Satisfied that he would keep his mouth shut, Octavia looked at Nitocris. ‘You will need me, when you reach Lahmia,’ she said. It wasn’t quite a protest, more in the nature of a warning. Her throat ached where Nitocris had gripped it. She hadn’t expected the vampire to react so violently. ‘I will be of no use to you here.’
‘As you will be of no use to me in the battle to come,’ Nitocris said. ‘You will cast your spell, Octavia. You will break the half-soul of the false queen of Lybaras, and shackle her bones to my will. You will cage the spirits of her people and bring them to heel. And then, and only then, you will be allowed to join me in Lahmia.’
Octavia allowed her brother to help her to her feet. She eyed Nitocris speculatively. ‘And what if I cannot get the spell to work?’ she said.
‘Then your brother dies,’ Nitocris said. ‘And I die as well, most likely.’ She smiled. ‘And then you die, because if our gambit fails, Andraste will take your worthless head.’
Andraste smirked and her fingers tapped the pommel of her sword.
Octavia had expected that answer. In a way, she had been hoping for it. Nitocris’s subtlety had its limits, as did her patience, and it was clear to the necromancer that both had been reached. ‘I will get the spell to work. And then I will join you,’ she said slowly. Nitocris’s smile grew and her eyes glittered in the shadow of the lizard-hide canopy. Octavia bowed low and turned away, pulling Steyr after her. He paused only to trade snarls with Andraste, and then he followed her off the roof of the pyramid.
His muttered curses filled the air as they descended. She let him vent and then said, ‘Thank you.’ His curses stuttered to a halt.
‘What?’
‘For saving me,’ Octavia said. She stopped as she reached the spot where her sword had fallen and stooped to reclaim it. She eyed it critically, checking to see whether its fall had damaged it, and then, satisfied, sheathed it.
‘Why break the habit of a lifetime,’ Steyr said sourly. He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘She intends to kill me, you know. You’ll be on your own. You’ll need to be wary, Octavia.’
Octavia turned to face him. ‘No, she wants to kill you. But she won’t. She has her own code of honour, barbaric as it is. Fight Sigmund,’ she said as she grabbed his hand. ‘Fight as you fought when you tried to rescue me from the slavers. Fight as you intended to fight, with your vampire fleet. Show her how useful you can be.’
He gave a crooked smile, from within his hood. ‘When have you ever known me to be useful, sister?’ He patted her hand. ‘But I take your meaning. You’ll still need to be careful. Andraste has her own plans, though she appears as loyal as a hound. I can smell the schemes that boil in her blood. She yearns for Nitocris’s throne, and you’re in her way.’
The idea that Andraste might seize the opportunity to kill her didn’t come as a shock to Octavia. She knew the vampire hated her – most of them hated her. They despised her for her magics and for the attention Nitocris paid her. Life among vampires was akin to the stories she’d heard of life in the Imperial court: constant backbiting and underhanded scheming to garner an extra bit of height on a ladder of importance. Andraste was at the top of the heap for the moment, and she couldn’t countenance someone like Octavia, who existed outside of the predatory pecking order that Nitocris had established.
But she had assumed that Andraste would make her move after she had cast her great working over the dead of Lybaras. The thought that Andraste might sacrifice her mistress in order to gain control of what was left of Nitocris’s empire after a failed assault on the tomb-city was an unsettling one.
‘Is she that bloody-minded?’ she said.
‘She’s a vampire. Take it from one who knows, sister, you must strike first, and hardest, or she will have her fangs in your throat before you finish that spell.’ Steyr looked out over the temple complex. ‘You must kill her as soon as possible. And take control of the fleet, if you can.’
‘The fleet,’ Octavia muttered. She peered at her brother. He didn’t meet her gaze.
‘We will need it, for the inevitable retreat. Nitocr
is is a savage and her concept of war is no different from that of a greenskin. She will hurl her forces full tilt at the enemy, until one side or the other breaks. I for one do not intend to be caught in the middle of that, if I can help it.’
He looked at her. ‘This spell of yours, what is it?’
‘The Chains of Usirian,’ Octavia said. She made a fist. ‘That’s what those old Arabayan tomes I found in Copher called it. It will bind an unbound soul, and free the dead from the tyranny of will.’ She smiled. ‘All I need is a bit of blood, shed at the moment of death. Nitocris swears that the blood on that ancient blade is that of Khalida, High Queen of Lybaras. With it, I can bring her and the legions that follow her, to heel.’
‘Really,’ Steyr murmured.
Octavia heard the amusement in his voice. She fixed her brother with a glare. ‘What are you thinking, brother?’
She could practically hear the gears turning in his head. He was cunning, and brave and resourceful, but subtlety was not one of his virtues.
‘Nothing much,’ he said. He paused. Then, ‘If you control Khalida and the forces at her disposal, would we need that blood-swilling leopardess and her stringy-haired vassals?’ He leaned close to her. ‘To get to Lahmia, I mean. That is still your goal, sister, is it not? To plunder the secrets of that dead kingdom, and bring this empire of bones to heel, eh?’
He enfolded her in his cloak, as he had done so often when they were children. But now, rather than warming her with the heat of his body, she felt only the cold radiating from him.
He leaned his chin on her shoulder and murmured, ‘Kill Andraste, sweet sister-mine, and then cast your spell. And once that has been done, destroy the Serpent Queen once and for all.’
Chapter 12
Felix cursed as the soft soil crumbled under his foot, and his leg sank to the knee in it. He flailed helplessly for a moment, before Gotrek knotted a hand in his cloak and hauled him up and out of the sinkhole. ‘Careful, manling,’ the Slayer growled. ‘These tunnels are as soft as an elf-man’s hair. One wrong step and you’ll be swallowed whole.’
Gotrek and Felix: The Serpent Queen Page 16