Nitocris’s handmaidens would be easy prey, after that. With the dead of Lybaras broken to his sister’s will, for despite what she claimed, that was the case, Nitocris’s pestilent followers could be captured, bound and left out to cook in the desert sun. The thought gave him no small amount of pleasure.
Another thought, albeit not quite so pleasurable, was of the pale face he’d seen crouched above him in the jungle trees. Felix Jaeger had survived, it seemed. Steyr wasn’t entirely happy with Felix. It hadn’t been the poet’s fault that the Herald of Lybaras had attacked – no, that had been all Nitocris’s doing. But he and his pet dwarf had been an unfortunate distraction at an inconvenient time.
Jaeger and the dwarf had been taken by Lybaras, and now, they were apparently heading towards the Temple of Skulls. That smacked of some gambit by the bone-bags. If his sister was smart, she could use said gambit as a distraction. She’d kill Jaeger, of course, more was the pity, but needs must. He leaned back, musing on what might have been.
His musing was interrupted before it’d even got properly under way. Steyr peered out from under his makeshift sun-screen as he heard the jangling shriek of one of the great bats that flew amongst their smaller brethren. He sighed as the bat landed in a plume of sand and its rider dropped from its back. She stalked towards him, the cloak and cowl of animal skins she wore swirling about her. ‘Why are you sitting?’ she snapped.
‘Hello, Yamina. Yes I’m fine, thank you, and yourself?’ Steyr said, turning away from her. She ducked beneath the scorpion, and glared at him.
‘The bone-eaters require your aid,’ she spat.
Steyr made a show of looking towards the closest knot of ghouls. They’d managed to tear the legs from the scorpion they were battling, and were now attempting to crack it open with stone axes. ‘Do they? I think they’re doing quite well without me, in my opinion.’ He reached beneath his cuirass and pulled out a small pouch, proffered it to her and said, ‘Jerky?’
She made as if to retort, and then grunted and pulled a slice of the dried and salted human meat from the pouch. She sank down beside him and chewed noisily.
‘Where’s the fleet?’ he said, watching the ghouls as they tore a writhing mummy from its scorpion-sarcophagus and began to devour it, even as it mewled in protest. ‘Haven’t gotten lost have they? Talia was a pirate’s daughter, but she hasn’t been on a boat in three hundred years.’
‘The fleet draws close. Talia drew forth a salt-wind and the souls of the drowned to speed them to Lybaras,’ Yamina said. ‘Worried that they won’t be there, jackal?’
‘Oh, are we all using that nickname now? Wonderful,’ he said. ‘And no, merely inquiring as a good captain ought. The military mind, Yamina, must have all the facts to plan accordingly.’
‘Military mind,’ she said and laughed. ‘You are no better than the bone-eaters.’
‘Then why am I carrying this?’ he said, and patted the standard.
‘Because Nitocris is besotted with that ragged red crow you call a sister,’ Yamina said. She smiled and licked her lips. ‘And she will have her. She will have us all, in the end. Nitocris cannot be denied. She will triumph and we will triumph with her, and sweep over the desert and mountains.’ She tore off a chunk of jerky and swallowed.
‘And then what? A grand tour of the provinces of the Empire, or perhaps Bretonnia?’ he asked. He didn’t try and hide the mocking tone to his words. Beneath the mockery, however, was a faint sense of longing. In truth, he’d almost be willing to forego treachery if he thought Nitocris actually meant to keep her word. To return to Altdorf at the head of a conquering army of the dead would be a fine thing indeed for a fellow who’d been run out one step ahead of the Sigmarites. But he knew Nitocris too well to believe any of what she said. ‘Will you all shuck your hides and armour for ladies’ dresses and expensive carriages?’
‘I don’t see why we can’t wear both,’ Yamina said. Her fangs sawed off another chunk of jerky. ‘We’re being followed, you know,’ she added, as she chewed.
‘I saw them, yes,’ Steyr said. A group of skeletal horsemen had been shadowing them most of the day. He assumed they were scouts, sent to keep an eye on them. ‘Given our queen’s fondness for announcing herself and her intentions, I didn’t think it was worth hunting them down. They already know that we’re coming and that our numbers are as the sands themselves.’
Yamina grunted and finished off the jerky. ‘You think too much,’ she said.
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘Best stop then, and start moving. Nitocris will not be pleased if you tarry,’ Yamina said. She stroked his cheek gently, and then, without warning, clawed his face. Steyr hissed in pain and slapped her hand away. She giggled and brought her fingers to her mouth. ‘She’ll do worse, if you don’t get moving,’ she said as she rose to her feet and started back towards her waiting bat. Steyr watched her go, his hand pressed to his torn cheek. He wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and take her head. But that would tip his hand too soon. No, it was best to savour the pain and wait for Octavia to do her part.
‘Be careful, sister, and be quick, for both our sakes,’ he muttered.
In the uppermost chamber at the top of the great ziggurat, Andraste made a peremptory gesture, and the dead men set the heavy sarcophagi down. There were three of them, and they were bound with heavy chains and dripping with muck. Octavia raised an eyebrow. She stood in front of Nitocris’s bier. Sunlight streamed down through the hole set in the roof above. The vampires stayed well away from it, which suited her just fine. ‘And what, pray tell, are you doing with those?’ she said, looking away from her preparations. She had completed the ritual purifications for the casting of the spell, and now all that remained was the spell itself. Andraste, however, didn’t seem in as much of a hurry as she was.
Andraste smiled. She patted the nearest of the sarcophagi and said, ‘You know what they are?’ The other vampires in the chamber murmured amongst themselves. They were all Andraste’s creatures, Octavia knew. She wondered whether Nitocris had left them all here intentionally or whether Andraste had subtly manipulated her queen into doing so.
‘I saw our queen sink them in the river, yes. They are traitors to her glorious cause,’ Octavia said. ‘She bound them and sunk them, so that they might suffer for their temerity. My question wasn’t who but why.’ Not that I require an answer, she thought. It had become obvious that Andraste had been waiting for such an opportunity for some time. Octavia had known what she intended the moment the vampire had organised a retrieval party of zombies and wights to recover the three prisoners from their confinement.
She did not know their names or what they were supposed to have done. Whatever treachery they had attempted had occurred during the expedition that had seen her and her brothers become entangled in Nitocris’s madness. They had been forced screaming into the sarcophagi and sealed away. It had been her first object lesson in what she could expect should she disappoint her new mistress. She gazed at the containers and wondered what sort of shape they’d be in now. Vampires were tenacious. They could survive even the harshest deprivation, but there would be… changes.
Andraste’s smile slipped. ‘Perhaps I missed them. They are my sisters.’ Her lips curled away from her fangs. ‘And who are you to question me?’
Octavia ducked her head and turned away. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ She heard the sarcophagi rattle as if something within them had suddenly awakened. A muted moan rose from one, followed by a hoarse screech from another. Andraste crouched beside them and murmured softly to them. ‘I was merely pointing out that she sealed them away for good reason. And that their confinement may have driven them past madness and into something worse,’ Octavia continued, not looking at either Andraste or the now-rattling sarcophagi.
‘That is my concern. Not yours!’ Andraste growled.
‘Then why bring them up here, where I am engaged in a delicate and dangerous ritual?’ Octavia asked. It had taken hours to prepare the
chamber for the ritual. She had had eight slaves butchered on the altar, as painfully as possible, to awaken the necromantic pulse of the ancient stones, and then had the bodies flayed and sacks made from the dripping skin. The sacks hung about the room, and the ghosts of the slaves were anchored to them, so that they might catch the breeze and lend their wails to her chanting when the time came. She had used their blood to daub sigils on the walls, so that the magics she invoked would be trapped in the chamber and thus properly concentrated. The slaves’ meat and muscle she had shucked from their bones and arranged in the required glistening, stinking patterns on the floor. The bones she had used to bolster the altar, after she had carved the proper symbols into them and removed the teeth. Those teeth now occupied a clay bowl on the altar, and would act as the fulcrum upon which she balanced the lever of her sorcery.
‘They require a stronger sustenance than the thin blood of slaves, sustenance which your magics will provide,’ Andraste said. Octavia nodded. That made sense. Vampires could draw strength from the winds of death as easily as they could blood, though they needed both to prosper. Being near a ritual such as the one she was about to cast would reinvigorate whatever sad remnants shuddered in those sarcophagi. But sensible as it was, she knew it wasn’t the whole reason. It was a show of power, a reminder that it was Andraste, not Nitocris, who was now in command here, and that Octavia continued to breathe only at her sufferance. Or so Andraste believed.
‘As you say,’ Octavia said. She let her hand fall to the pommel of her blade. After Nitocris’s departure she had spent a few precious hours ringing her sword about with dark enchantments, so that if she was forced to defend herself, she could. Besides the ghosts that clung to her like a cloak of fog, it was the only weapon she could count on. ‘What is my concern is the spell – it is time to cast it, Andraste. If Nitocris is to have any hope of opening the way to Lahmia, we must chain the souls of Lybaras and now.’
Andraste eyed her for a moment. Octavia wondered if she would be so foolish as to refuse. Then, Andraste barked an order to one of the other vampires, who stepped forwards, bearing a cloth-wrapped bundle.
Octavia gestured for the vampire to set the sword down on the bier, atop the rag of flayed flesh. The flesh, which Octavia had excised from the body of a bandit dangling from an Estalian gallows, had been tattooed with certain signs and symbols by a necromancer of her acquaintance. He had shown her the proper ritual preparations for the spell she was preparing to cast, in return for her aid in summoning the spectre of a long-dead king.
The vampire hesitated, and looked at Andraste. Octavia glanced at the latter. Andraste motioned sharply and the vampire placed the sword where Octavia had indicated. ‘This would go more swiftly if you weren’t lurking over my shoulder,’ she said as she placed a severed hand at each corner of the bier. The fingers of each hand had been made into candles, with wicks made from human hair stuffed into the deep cuts she had made on each fingertip. Each hand had belonged to a traitor, whether personal or political. It had taken her months to gather them from the corpses of executed men. Luckily, the Tileans had a broad interpretation of what constituted treachery.
‘If you were trustworthy, my presence would not be required,’ Andraste hissed. And if you were trustworthy, you would be by your mistress’s side and not stuck guarding me, Octavia thought as she drew the sword from its crumbling sheath and ran a thumbnail across the age-pitted surface of the blade. The blood of its last victim had never been cleaned from it, and dark splotches stained the metal. She could practically taste the power there, though there was nothing unusual or inherently mystical about either the blade or the long-since dried blood. Once, those stains had been no more than what they appeared to be. Now, however, they were something more potent. So potent, in fact, that she could sense nothing from them.
Then, what if that was the case? It was a small doubt – a creeping maggot of uncertainty that refused to be squashed. What if the blade was exactly what it appeared to be, and was nothing more than a rusty old relic? What if Nitocris was wrong?
Then the spell will not work, and she will be destroyed regardless, she thought. ‘Have you ever stopped to consider that it is not I whose loyalty is in question?’ she said. She didn’t look at Andraste. She didn’t have to. She could feel the vampire’s rage through the threads of dark magic that invisibly pierced the air between them. The sarcophagi shuddered and something within one of them gave a croaking shriek. She set a trio of canopic jars on the bier, and opened each one. She reached into the first and withdrew a pinch of dust made from the powdered bones of a jackal.
‘You are only loyal to yourself,’ Andraste growled. ‘You know no higher cause.’
‘If you think that, then you are stupid as well as treacherous,’ Octavia said breezily. She scattered the powdered bone across the sword’s blade. The granules sizzled where they struck the metal. Behind her, Andraste snarled and took a step forwards. Octavia tensed.
Her brother was right. She could smell the ambition bleeding off Andraste like sweat. The vampire had a hundred different plans brewing away in her brain, and ambition dripped from her every word. Nitocris had been wise in choosing who would remain behind. Only a dozen vampires had been left, including Andraste. Of those dozen, five were loyal to her. The other six were, if not loyal to Andraste, certainly not entirely loyal to Nitocris. They were the waverers and plotters, and likely the reason Andraste had decided to dig up those who’d been buried. In the days that had followed the army’s departure, the vampires had begun to plot and scheme against one another in an almost playful fashion. Discipline, fairly tenuous when Nitocris was present, had vanished entirely. Andraste maintained order through savagery and cunning, but she lacked her mistress’s ability to inspire.
They’d be easy to pick off, one by one, for that reason. They didn’t dare touch her, thanks to the cloud of spirits that accompanied her wherever she went now. She wasn’t entirely certain how effective the ghosts would be against vampires, but as long as the latter shared her uncertainty, they had a stalemate.
Her ghosts hovered protectively about her, bound to her by chains of love and devotion. Andraste curled her nose at them and backed away. Octavia knew she wouldn’t make her move until the spell had been cast. Then the vampire would strike, seeking to claim the blade and mastery of Lybaras, for herself.
And then I will burn you to ash and your sisters with you, and take what remains of the dead here and go to meet my brother, if he survives, she thought. Or, conversely, she would die, and horribly, beneath the vampire’s fangs. Her hand found the amulet shaped like a woman’s mouth.
Fiducci had taught her that the souls of those who dabbled in the dark arts were stronger than those of ordinary folk. They were like strange moths, trapped in a chrysalis shell of meat and bone, awaiting the cessation of breath to be free. Some were not strong enough to survive the transformation, while others became mad souls, and dangerous to everything around them, living or dead. She clutched the amulet so tightly that it bit into her palm. She wondered what she would become. Whatever it was, it would be glorious – a thing of death, and beauty, if and when it happened.
From somewhere outside, a vampire screamed, interrupting her reverie. It was not a cry of pain, but one of warning. Andraste whipped around, her lips skinning back from her fangs. She gestured to the others. ‘See what’s going on.’
She looked at Octavia as the others raced from the chamber. ‘And you – finish what you’ve started, witch. I’ll see to it that we’re not disturbed.’
‘Of course,’ Octavia said. She opened the second jar, and retrieved a pinch of dust, culled from a certain barrow in the Worlds Edge Mountains. She scattered it across the blade. Thin plumes of foul-smelling smoke rose from the sword. She felt Andraste draw close. The vampire circled her and the bier, not quite drawing close to the circle of sunlight that marked the bier. From outside, she could hear the clangour of weapons. It sounded as if they were under attack. How convenient, she thou
ght, forcing herself not to smile. How unexpected.
She had seen the intruders through the eyes of the dead stationed in the outer plazas, and later, through the eyes of her cats, who’d been patrolling the ruins of the outer walls. The cats had attacked, and she’d made no effort to stop them, or to alert Andraste, not realising what was going on until it was too late. If she’d been quicker of mind, she’d have had her beasts retreat and merely watch. The intruders, whether they were treasure hunters, adventurers or luckless wanderers, were no threat to her, and she had hoped they might provide her with a necessary distraction. Which, it seemed, they were doing.
With a thumbnail, she cut open her palm and squeezed her blood into the bowl of teeth. They immediately began to hop and rattle against one another. She took them out and scattered them about her. They continued to twitch and move wherever they landed. Each tooth was like a tent spike, drawing the skin of her power tight over the room.
Necromancy, more so than any other magic, had a tendency to leak away from its caster. The dead were hungry in more ways than one, and they required more and more energy to bolster them up, the longer they were active. They were sumps of dark power, absorbing it and basking in it, and demanding more. That was why most necromancers raised the newly dead at every available opportunity, such fresh corpses requiring less in the way of effort. After a time, it grew exhausting, unless you had a way of strengthening yourself.
Some necromancers ate ghosts, swallowing the souls of their victims to strengthen their own. Others drew strength like a leech from the dead, though they became less human in the doing so. For herself, she’d found the best way was not to take from the dead, but to give. Every dead thing she had summoned had some part of her in it, nestled like a seed. A bit of life force, that grew in the dark soil of every rotting husk or whimpering spirit.
It had weakened her and dangerously so, but she did not fear death, the way many of her peers did. Out in the plaza, the dead waited, and she could feel the seeds she had planted in them flowering. With a single gesture, she awoke that which she had given, now grown fat on the stuff of death. Energy flooded her, and she swayed on her feet, momentarily drunk with the delicious darkling essence of it all. She was connected to every corpse, skeleton and spirit left in the ruin, each one feeding from her and returning what they took in a pulsing loop of power. For a moment, all were one.
Gotrek and Felix: The Serpent Queen Page 26