Gotrek and Felix: The Serpent Queen

by Josh Reynolds

  Gotrek’s hand clamped on to the back of her charred skull. ‘That’s the problem with you blood-suckers, you don’t know when to lie down and die,’ the Slayer growled. He tore her off Felix as the carrion was struck from above and below simultaneously by two of the other vampires. The bird shrieked and lost more of itself to the wind. The sun was rising now. The bird spun. Its talons snared one of the vampires. Felix slid from its back, a yell bursting from his lips as the world spun about him. He saw Gotrek and the burned vampire fall past, locked in a death-grip. The Slayer was laughing wildly.

  One of the vampires tore through the carrion’s wing in an explosion of dust and rot, her talons spread and her bestial jaws wide. There was nothing human in her features, only an animal hunger too long denied. Felix swept the sword out, raking her across her eyes as she smashed into him. She shrieked, and leathery wings, already smoking from the touch of the rising sun, enfolded him.

  Twisting in her grip, Felix interposed his bracelet-wrapped forearm between his throat and her blindly snapping jaws. Fangs broke on the scales of the golden serpent, and Felix snarled a curse as he rammed the ceremonial blade through her heart. The vampire plummeted away from him as they turned in the air. He’d lost sight of Gotrek, and everything else, save for the revolving blur of sky and rapidly approaching ground.

  ‘Felix, grab my hand!’ Zabbai’s shout pierced his confusion, and he looked around. He saw her swimming through the air towards him, her hand stretched out. He flailed for it instinctively. She hauled him into an embrace. ‘Duck your head, barbarian. Sand isn’t as soft as it looks.’

  ‘What?’ Felix said, eyes wide.

  ‘Head down, little man,’ Zabbai said, planting her hand on the crown of his head and pressing his face to her hauberk. ‘And maybe say a little prayer to your primitive gods.’

  They struck the ground before Felix could compose so much as a brief prayer. Sand geysered about them, and Zabbai’s bones dug into his flesh as they bounced and rolled and slid to a halt. Zabbai had been right – they hadn’t been far from the ground. Far enough to hurt, though, he thought as her arms flopped away from him and he rolled free. Every muscle ached and his bones felt as if they’d been shaken loose of their joints. A scream made him look up.

  The last vampire dived down towards Zabbai, who was pushing herself to her feet. Fire and smoke streamed out from the swiftly moving, loudly howling creature, but whatever pain it was feeling from its ongoing immolation seemed only to add to its determination to tear the head from the Herald of Lybaras. Zabbai, wrappings askew and body shuddering, was in no state to defend herself.

  Felix lunged forward, elbowing her aside as he drew Karaghul. He swept the blade from its sheath as the vampire drew close enough that the heat of the flames that now enveloped it singed his hair. The sword passed through the vampire’s neck as it completed its arc, and Felix staggered aside as the headless body smashed into the sands and exploded into burning gobbets of ash.

  The carrion had crashed down nearby. The bird had completely come apart, but it had succeeded in taking its prey with it. Even as the carrion returned to the sands it had sprung from, its claws had pierced the heart and skull of the vampire it had caught in its talons. Felix looked for Gotrek. The Slayer had survived worse falls – his drunken attempt to climb the Tower of the Grail in Mousilion came to mind – but he hadn’t been locked in combat with a vampire at the time.

  He heard a roar from just over the closest sand dune. Felix scrambled up the slope, and saw Andraste and Gotrek straining against one another. The vampire’s blackened fingers were sunk into Gotrek’s bull-neck, blood welling about them. Gotrek had his hands locked around her head, and ash and char slipped between his fingers. Smoke rose from the vampire as the eye of the sun swept over the desert. Andraste snarled and squirmed in Gotrek’s grip. Flames blossomed on her already burned flesh as the sun rose. One more day, Felix thought, as the vampire became a wailing torch. Her wails were cut short as her head came apart in Gotrek’s hands. The Slayer stepped back as his opponent crumbled to dust and ash. Slapping his palms together to rid them of the greasy char, Gotrek glanced up at Felix. ‘Survived, then, manling? What about the crow-bait?’

  ‘I still live,’ Zabbai said, placing her hand on Felix’s shoulder. He looked at her. She looked as bad as he felt.

  ‘That’s debatable,’ Gotrek said, touching the already clotting wounds on his neck.

  ‘Where are we?’ Felix said, rubbing his wrist. ‘Are we near Lybaras? If the answer’s not yes, I’m going to be unhappy.’

  ‘We are near Lybaras,’ Zabbai said. ‘Unfortunately, we have landed on the wrong side of that.’ She motioned with her axe. Felix followed the gesture and his eyes widened.

  Across the shifting sand dunes rose a line of vast statues, each one almost as large as the ziggurats of the Temple of Skulls, and Felix wondered why he hadn’t noticed them from the air, even occupied by the vampires as he had been. They stretched across the horizon, as far as Felix could see in either direction, and he counted almost thirty of them before he gave up. The towering effigies were covered in gold and gems, and each carried a long, elaborately carved staff in one hand and a pair of huge scales in the other.

  The line of gigantic statues stood on the edge of what looked to be an immense crater. A column of dust, which seemed to stretch for miles, rose above the crater, and Felix could dimly make out the creak of bones and the clash of weapons. ‘What is that? Did we land near a battle?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Zabbai said, starting forwards. ‘Ushtep’s Folly, the Crater of the Waking Dead. King Ushtep of Rasetra and King Imanotep of Mahrak met in battle in that crater several centuries ago. They were too evenly matched and in their frustration, they blamed the gods for prolonging their duel. The gods grew angry and cursed them to wage eternal war for their amusement. It is said that they watch the battle through the eyes of the Hierotitans they summoned from the sands, and which now line the crater. This is but the smallest edge. It stretches for miles, and separates Mahrak and Rasetra. We’ll have to cross the rim of the crater if we wish to continue on to Lybaras.’

  Gotrek scrubbed at his eye socket with his thumb. ‘We’re still at least two days from your blasted city, on foot and moving fast. The manling won’t make it.’

  ‘What?’ Felix said.

  ‘I know.’ Zabbai looked at him. ‘I am sorry, Felix. Djubti’s bird was supposed to carry us to within a day’s march of the city. But the gods have willed otherwise.’

  ‘What do your gods have against me?’ Felix asked plaintively.

  ‘Let’s go ask them,’ Gotrek said, starting towards the crater and the statues that loomed above it. Felix watched him go, and then looked at Zabbai, whose head was cocked, as if in thought.

  ‘He’s right,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There will be chariots down there, and horses. We will take one.’ She looked at him and clasped his shoulder. ‘We will get to Lybaras before the next sunrise, barbarian. You shall not die, save perhaps in battle – but better battle than the asp’s sting, eh?’ She sprinted after Gotrek. Felix gaped after her for a moment, and then hurried in pursuit, hope lending strength to his flagging limbs.

  He was more exhausted than he had been in some time. Aches and pains radiated through his leaden limbs. He was thirsty, but there was no time to take a sip from the depressingly light waterskin slapping against his side. There was no time to fish a bit of pemmican or dried fruit from the pouch on his belt. Not if he wanted to keep up with his companions.

  When they reached the line of Hierotitans, they paused. Even Gotrek was somewhat taken aback by the scene taking place in the crater below. Countless thousands of skeletal warriors were locked in combat. The battle-lines swayed across the vast crater, as hundreds of chariots smashed into one another, and ushabti duelled with each other. As they watched, a chariot ploughed through a unit of skeletal spearmen, crushing them beneath its heavy wheels. The broken warriors lay still fo
r a moment. Then a creeping haze of purple light enveloped them. Broken bones mended and bent or shattered weapons repaired themselves, and the skeletons staggered upright, ready to resume battle. The same scene was repeated across the expanse of the crater. Warriors fought, fell, and rose to fight again with barely a moment inbetween.

  ‘This battle will never end,’ Zabbai said. She raised a hand to indicate the statues. ‘So long as the gods watch, and remain entertained, the battles continue. Both Ushtep and Imanotep have sent messengers to every city in Nehekhara, demanding the intervention of the other kings and queens, as if that would bring things to an end.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it?’ Felix said. He cast a wary glance up at the statues that loomed over them. The head of each had been carved in what he took to be the shape of the face of a given god. The eyes of each glowed faintly, and he felt a chill as he wondered what inhuman intelligences might be gazing out at the battle taking place below.

  Gotrek shook himself and muttered a curse under his breath. Felix wondered what the Slayer thought of such a fate – to be damned to fight, but never die, for an eternity. It probably struck a personal chord with the dwarf. Gotrek hawked and spat. ‘Well?’ he said harshly. ‘Let’s get down there, borrow a chariot and get to Lybaras.’

  They slid down the wall of the crater, trailing clouds of dust behind them. Felix didn’t bother asking how they were going to acquire transportation. It was fairly evident from the pugnacious set to Gotrek’s jaw, and the way Zabbai swung her axe. They reached the bottom of the crater quickly. They were at the far edge of the battle, but even so, this close, it was startlingly loud, albeit in a different way from any other battle Felix had had the bad fortune to find himself in. There were no voices shouting battle-cries, no screams of the dying, only the scrape of bone on bone and the rattle of metal.

  ‘There,’ Zabbai said. She indicated a chariot being pulled by a quartet of skeleton horses as it slewed through a line of archers. Its rider smashed the skulls of his enemies with a massive, two-handed blade as the chariot drifted through their ranks.

  Gotrek hurried towards the chariot, and, without hesitation, leapt onto the side of it, momentarily overbalancing it. His axe took the head off the driver. The rider, a magnificently accoutred prince, whirled, mummified features tightening in surprise. Zabbai sent her axe spinning towards him, removing his arm at the elbow. The axe buried itself in the front of the chariot. The tomb-prince reeled in shock, and Gotrek grabbed the front of his robes before he could recover. With a grunt of effort, Gotrek jerked the warrior out of the chariot as it slewed in a wide circle, and hurled him to the ground. The tomb-prince made to rise, but was crushed beneath the wheels of his own chariot a moment later.

  Zabbai leapt onto the chariot and grabbed the reins. ‘Come on, manling, pick up your feet,’ Gotrek shouted, holding out a hand. Felix’s lungs burned with effort as he chased after the vehicle. All around him, the shattered ranks of skeletons began to pick themselves up. Taking a breath, he leapt. His hand slapped into Gotrek’s, and then he found himself falling into the back of the chariot. He got to his feet as Zabbai snapped the reins and sent the chariot hurtling towards the edge of the crater.

  ‘Are you certain this is going to work?’ he shouted, fighting to be heard over the noise of battle. The team of fleshless horses that pulled the chariot didn’t seem bothered by their new passengers. They galloped where they were directed, regardless of who was holding the reins.

  ‘No,’ Zabbai said, without looking at him. ‘Hold on.’

  Felix hunkered down as the chariot rattled up the slope of the crater. As they cleared the rim, he thought he saw the statues begin to move, their heads turning, their hands reaching down. Rock ground against rock, and Gotrek hefted his axe and shouted curses at the top of his voice. Sand rose into the air around them as the statues stabbed the ground with their staves, narrowly missing them. Felix covered his eyes and whispered every prayer he could think of.

  Then they were shooting past the line of Hierotitans and galloping north, towards Lybaras. ‘Ha ha!’ Gotrek bellowed. ‘Open your eyes, manling. We’re on our way, and my doom waits!’

  Chapter 21

  Eyes closed, Nitocris spread her arms and relaxed on her perch on the terrorgheist’s neck. The wind coursed over her, tearing at her like a hungry jackal. The day was wearing on, and she could still feel its deadly heat, even through the sandstorm her handmaidens had conjured and the fluttering hurricane of bats that flocked around her. Her skin crawled at the thought of burning. Though she had braved the sun before, and likely would again, it was never a pleasurable experience.

  Somewhere far below her, drums thudded. Not her drums, but old ones, made from cracked leather and covered in the dust of ages. The drums of Lybaras were sounding the song of war. Nitocris’s eyes opened and she hissed in satisfaction. Finally, after centuries of struggle and labour, she was on the cusp of claiming all that had been promised to her. And all she had to do was fight her way through the dead legions of her mistress’s greatest enemy. Nitocris threw back her head and laughed.

  All of her doubts and questions regarding her purpose were burned away by the burgeoning tide of blood-lust that rose within her. What did it matter why she had been chosen, or what might await her over the mountains? Nothing mattered now save the fight. She would conquer her queen’s enemies and maybe die in the process, but it would be done. She had built an empire solely to turn it into a spear to lance the belly of Nehekhara, and she was now guiding that spear into position for the killing thrust.

  She had hoped to use them, but such was not to be. It was better this way – the magic had not sat well with her, though it had been her plan. But that plan was ash now.

  She had felt the pain of her sisters dying like a blade in her gut. It had quivered through her limbs and blinded her for long, agonising moments. As with her assassins, she had shared blood with some of those left behind. Something had gone wrong. Some unseen enemy had cut the tail of her army off. Some opponent had killed her followers and rendered her best laid plans to so much wreckage. She had suspects aplenty – Andraste, Octavia, and the Nehekharans among them. The identity of her enemy made no difference. The deed was done, and retreat was not an option.

  After the pain of her sisters’ deaths had faded, and the anger, she had felt a moment of pure joy; there was no strategy now, no scheme, only war. In war, Nitocris was supreme. She had cunning enough, and could plan, but it was only in the red moment that she could truly show her worth to the Sisterhood of the Silver Pinnacle.

  She would smash Lybaras. She would smash Rasetra and Mahrak, claim Lahmia and weather the wrath of the other tomb-cities, as she had weathered the wrath of the lizards and the jungle tribes. She would deliver an empire to her queen, as she had sworn. She would earn her future, in her own way. She would not return to the Temple of Skulls. If any of her handmaidens had survived, they would join her, or not, as they wished. All that mattered was the war ahead, the struggle to come.

  She would need to find a new necromancer, however. That thought gave her pause. She felt a flicker of something that might have been sadness, or disappointment. She had not felt the necromancer’s death, but she had assumed that the woman had met her end nonetheless. To think otherwise was inconceivable. If Andraste was behind it, then Octavia was certainly dead. And if it had been Octavia… Well, she would need another necromancer regardless.

  She had not spoken to Steyr yet. She looked forwards to telling him, if he survived the coming battle. If she could not enjoy Octavia’s company, she would enjoy the pain her absence caused her brother. She giggled, and looked around. Below, the battle was being joined. The numberless dead of the Southlands were stumbling towards the great walls of Lybaras, and the army that was arrayed before it. Awakened kings bedecked in their finest war-panoply stood aloof on the backs of chariots, surrounded by their tomb-guard. Legions of archers waited, arrows nocked and pointed upwards. Skeletal warriors crouched behind a line of locked shi
elds, spears levelled at the approaching horde. And in the centre of the line was a mound of skulls and bone that had burst from the earth the moment the first zombie had come into sight of the walls.

  A dais of bone surmounted the mound, and upon the dais sat a heavy casket, inscribed with eye-searing hieroglyphs. Behind the casket stood the liche-priest her spies had named as Djubti, and his harsh, croaking voice thundered across the field of battle, impossibly loud. He gesticulated with a staff and a curved knife, and even from as high above as she was, she could feel the power building in the air about him.

  As armies went, Nitocris had seen few that were more impressive. As the horde drew near, the drumbeat started up and the front ranks began to march to meet the coming enemy. Chariots rumbled forward, flanked by knots of skeletal horsemen and swiftly trotting ushabti. The latter easily kept pace with the cavalry and chariots.

  Nitocris saw no sign of any larger constructs – no great war-sphinxes or titan statuary. But that didn’t mean that they weren’t there. She looked away from the walls, towards the harbour. The galleys of Lybaras were still at anchor. A heavy fog rolled in towards the city, and within that fog was her fleet. Whether Lybaras would launch their galleys before her fleet reached the shore, she couldn’t say. If not, Talia had orders to lead the dead aboard her vessels into Lybaras and fight her way towards the gates.

  Nitocris jerked on the terrorgheist’s exposed neck muscles, forcing the beast to pull in its expansive wings and drop from the sky towards the walls of Lybaras. It shrieked as it plummeted, and she screamed with it. She enjoyed the rush of wind past her face and the hiss of the arrows slicing up to meet her. There was a joy to be found in battle that outstripped even the taste of fear-seasoned blood, and she intended to indulge herself to the fullest, now that there was no reason not to.

  As the terrorgheist plunged down through the cloud of arrows and catapult-fire that had rushed up to envelop them, she reached across herself and drew her blade. She spun the sword in her hand, eager to smash bone and chop through withered, mummified muscle. A fusillade of fiery, screaming skulls, trailing eerie tails of green fire, arced past her.