The transplantation of the Nehekharan cults had taken close to thirty years of effort on her part; something to keep her interested during her idle moments. Small temples to Djaf, Phakth and Ptra now occupied the central plaza of Mourkain, and their priestesses had all been gifted with her kiss. Granted, those temples and their practices would be unrecognisable to any inhabitant of the Great Land.
Blood was the holiest of sacrifices, and each god accepted their due in the temples of Mourkain. The sangzye was a tax of blood, levied on the devout; it served to keep the growing population of vampires in check.
‘Ajal Djazk,’ Neferata said. She looked at Rasha, who smiled thinly. Djazk was the latest troublesome nail in need of hammering down: a minor lordling who’d attempted to subvert several of Neferata’s handmaidens through bribery and other, less subtle methods. He was a brute and a slave to his passions. He was not alone in such, but he had made his intentions known in too blatant a fashion.
The memory of what Neferata had done to Strezyk was fading fast, even among those who’d witnessed it. Few of the Strigoi could accept that a woman, vampire or not, was something other than a servant or a concubine. She had made good use of that blind spot. Ushoran used Abhorash for public executions. But it fell to Neferata to eliminate those of Ushoran’s inner circle who grew too free with their blood-kiss or otherwise machinated against him. Few saw it coming, and those who did rarely ran far enough to escape her growing reach.
‘He never returned from his last beast-hunt,’ the other vampire said. ‘The beasts must have killed him. We’ll find his remains strapped to one of their ugly stone idols somewhere, I’d warrant.’ Her eyes glinted with pleasure.
‘Would you,’ Neferata murmured. ‘Good. What of his concubines?’
‘He only had a few who were in any decent shape. Of those, I pulled aside two or three that might be of some use. The others I sent to the temples. The priestesses will find some use for them,’ Rasha said.
‘Excellent,’ Neferata said. The Strigoi nobility were profligate. They turned women, and sometimes men, without regard, like children hoarding toys. When a situation like Djazk’s arose, those creatures were often left without a master. Those whom she could not find a use for, she had killed quietly, and without unnecessary pain. It was not the victims’ fault that creatures like Gashnag had a taste for women and no self-control. Some, however, were only too happy to be of service. These she sent out and away from Mourkain, to be her eyes and ears among the brute tribes of men in the north and west and east.
She cocked her head back, looking up at Naaima, who had set aside the comb and was now tightly braiding her hair. Even now, centuries after the fact, Naaima refused to let any of the others touch Neferata’s hair. Neferata, for her part, saw no reason to complain. ‘W’soran,’ she said.
Naaima frowned. ‘He’s up to something.’
‘And the moon is made of the skull of a god,’ Stregga snorted. ‘Tell us something we don’t know.’
Naaima glanced sourly at the other woman, but continued. ‘Whatever it is, it’s connected to his trips to the pyramid on certain nights. But we can’t get close enough to follow him. Not with his guard dogs.’ W’soran had taken to travelling with a pack of ghouls at his heels. The loping beasts were excellent watchdogs, if one didn’t mind the smell. Clad in their black robes and hoods, they moved through the streets at night, spread out around the old monster like a flock of crows.
‘Keep trying. He and Ushoran are keeping something from me, and I want to know what,’ Neferata said. There had seemed to be no pattern before to W’soran’s comings and goings in regards to the pyramid, but what she had learned from her spies over the years had put paid to that supposition. There was a pattern and a reason for that pattern. A reason she was one step closer to discovering.
A familiar scent stung her nose and she hissed in disgust. ‘Who is watching the door, Naaima?’
‘Layla,’ Naaima said automatically. Neferata grunted. The girl was human. They had a number of human servants, all picked by Naaima, who had a way with the lower orders. ‘Why?’ Naaima said, a moment before she too caught the scent. Her eyes widened.
The door to the bathhouse opened, and grinning figures strode in, boots crunching on the delicate tiles. Neferata caught a glimpse of others outside, crouched over a too-pale shape. The girl had tried to bar their way and paid the price for her loyalty. Neferata kept her face expressionless as Naaima hissed in rage. The others reacted similarly, surging up out of the waters and surrounding her.
‘Well, here we all are. How lovely,’ the Strigoi purred, gazing at them with undisguised lust. He was tall and broad-shouldered and his name was Zandor. There were other Strigoi behind him. They were, like Zandor, minor nobles. Neferata recognised them all as Ushoran’s lapdogs, sniffing at his table scraps, always trying to curry favour where they could.
‘These are the ladies’ baths, Ajal Zandor,’ Neferata said blithely.
‘Do forgive me, Lady Neferata, but I was pining for your beauty,’ Zandor said, leering. The other Strigoi chuckled appreciatively. ‘We would speak with you,’ Zandor added sneeringly.
Neferata sighed. ‘Very well, Naaima, take the others outside.’ Naaima looked at her in horror. Neferata frowned. ‘Go. I’m sure I will be perfectly safe here, with Ajal Zandor and his… companions.’
‘Oh yes,’ Zandor said. ‘Perfectly safe, I assure you.’
Neferata restrained the urge to roll her eyes as her handmaidens left the bathhouse. Zandor, like the unlamented Djazk, was infamous in Mourkain for his ribald exploits. He thought a woman was only good for one thing and Neferata irked him to no end, though she had rarely spoken to him. Zandor sank to his haunches, eyeing her. ‘I’m given to understand that you convinced our mighty hetman to spare that oaf Vorag, after he made such a mess of young Feyz at the Midsummer banquet.’
‘Vorag was exiled,’ Neferata said.
‘He should have been staked out on the slopes,’ one of the other Strigoi growled. He was a handsome creature, dark-haired and thin-featured. He wore gold, and polished brass discs adorned his furs.
‘Hello, Gashnag,’ Neferata said. ‘I wonder, did Vorag demand the same when you took Ergat’s fangs last month?’
Gashnag blanched. Zandor chuckled. ‘It is not the deed, but how it was done, my lady. Vorag is little better than one of those beasts he so enjoys hunting.’ He leaned forwards, his features assuming a predatory cast. ‘Why do you support such a brute, I wonder? Are there benefits to a grateful monster?’
Neferata frowned. ‘You go too far, Zandor.’
‘I apologise,’ Zandor said. ‘I merely wondered why you backed one like the Bloodytooth when there are other, more influential friends to be had.’
Neferata laughed. ‘Do you not have enough friends, Zandor?’
‘None like you, my lady. Hetman Ushoran speaks highly of you,’ Zandor said, stirring the water with his hand. ‘And Khaled as well, though he is, perhaps, biased.’
Neferata was silent for a moment. ‘You were Strezyk’s get, weren’t you, Zandor?’ she said.
Zandor stiffened. ‘And so,’ he said. ‘May a man not expand beyond his horizons?’
‘Not if he is wise,’ Neferata said softly.
Zandor stood. ‘I am sorry that you feel that way. I had hoped to avoid a scene, but obviously you will not heed wisdom.’ He turned. ‘Kurven,’ he said.
The vampire who entered the bathhouse was massive. There was too much beast to this one, Neferata knew. He had let himself slip into the permanent red twilight that creatures like Vorag danced along the edge of. Wide eyes bulged over a quivering, wet spear-blade nose, and a mouthful of fangs surfaced from a bramble-like beard. He was a hairy creature and fairly bursting out of his cuirass. A crooked claw pointed at her. ‘I challenge you,’ he growled, mangling the words into near unintelligibility.
Neferata’s
eyes flickered to Zandor, who smirked. Memories were short, even among immortals it seemed. Or, more likely, Kurven was a professional duellist. She noted the trio of necklaces that hung from the brute’s neck, each one heavy with extracted fangs. ‘Ushoran will be unhappy with you, Zandor,’ she said, not moving from the water. ‘I am his left hand.’
‘Then maybe it’s time he got a new one,’ Zandor said. ‘Women should not meddle in politics.’ He looked at Kurven. ‘Kill her. We all saw you challenge her. None here will say it wasn’t fair and by the law.’
Kurven gave a howl that rattled the tiles of the bathhouse, and sprang for her. Neferata sank beneath the water swiftly. The brute landed with a splash, his talons gouging the spot where she had rested. She rose behind him, fangs bared. Kurven spun, eyes blazing.
She ducked under the Strigoi’s swipe and slashed him across the face, eliciting a screech. He was more angry than hurt. Quicker than she expected he lunged and caught her, shoving her beneath the water and driving her into the bottom of the bath. This one knew how to fight, unlike Strezyk. She brought her legs up and drove her feet into his belly.
Kurven released her and reared back. Neferata burst from the water, claws stretching for his hairy throat. The Strigoi were cheering, so certain of the beast’s victory that they did not notice the door to the bathhouse burst open to admit Naaima and the others. With vengeful shrieks, the vampire-women dived onto the Strigoi even as Neferata launched herself at Kurven and buried her fangs in his throat.
Digging her claws into his chest, she whipped her head back, tearing his throat out in a welter of gore. Kurven gagged horribly and sank into the water, trying to hold his ruined throat together. Neferata didn’t let him slip far. She hoisted him up, her talons sunken knuckle deep into the meat of his chest. She gave a shove with one hand, and bone buckled and splintered as she dug out Kurven’s heart. Wrenching the organ loose she stared at it for a moment before she buried her fangs in it, swallowing its final, plaintive beat. She let Kurven sink into the darkening water and climbed out, still holding the heart in one hand.
The fight between her followers and the Strigoi had been quick. Only Zandor and Gashnag had remained to fight, while the others had fled as soon as they realised that Kurven was dead. Gashnag lay groaning on the ground, Stregga’s foot pressed to the back of his skull and his blood dripping from her hands. Naaima was far stronger than a puling creature like Zandor and she had him on his knees, his arms twisted behind his back and his scalplock jerked tight, forcing him to stare up at Neferata as she swayed towards him, trailing Kurven’s blood behind her.
‘Somehow, I think you thought that this was going to go differently, Ajal Zandor,’ Neferata purred, sinking to her haunches. She held up Kurven’s mangled heart and showed it to him. ‘I want you to remember this moment, Zandor. Remember my hand on a Strigoi heart, and I want you to recall that it could just as easily have been yours.’ She clenched her fist, crushing the lump of meat. ‘Let him go.’
‘We should kill him,’ Naaima hissed, leaning close to Zandor.
‘Aye, let’s take his fangs,’ Stregga said.
‘We already have,’ Neferata said, gesturing curtly. ‘Let him up, and Gashnag as well. Let’s not keep these fine ajals from their business, shall we?’
Zandor left, his glare hot with rage and not a little fear. Neferata smiled, satisfied. ‘The memory of Strezyk was getting stale. Now there’s a new memory to dampen the fire in their bellies,’ she said, looking at the others. Only Naaima wasn’t listening. Instead, she was crouched over the girl who’d been guarding the door. Neferata saw at once that the Strigoi had been at her. Some of them saw humans only as cattle. She looked at Rasha and Stregga. ‘Did you see the ones who did this?’
‘I did,’ Rasha growled.
‘Find them and bring me their fangs.’ Neferata looked at Iona and Anmar. ‘Follow Zandor and see where he goes. I want to know who convinced that jackal that he could get away with this.’ The vampires moved quickly, faster than the human eye could follow. Neferata watched them go and then turned back to Naaima. ‘Is she dead?’
‘Not yet.’ Naaima looked mournfully down into the girl’s features. ‘But she will not survive these wounds. Not unless we do something.’ A note of pleading entered her voice.
Neferata looked down at the serving girl, her body marred by great slashes and gouging, sloppy bite-marks. Her blood dripped down Naaima’s arms. Her eyelids fluttered and a quiet moan escaped from her mouth. Something that might have been pity stabbed at Neferata. Pragmatism reared its head, crushing pity beneath its relentless tread.
She looked at Naaima. ‘I have no need of her,’ she said. ‘Not with Djazk’s women.’
‘She was wounded in your service,’ Naaima said, stroking the girl’s brow. A fever-sweat had broken out, and Neferata could smell death congealing in the girl’s wounds. ‘You owe her…’
‘I owe her nothing. She failed, and she has paid for that failure. Besides, of what use would such a creature be to me?’ She knew it was the wrong thing to say even as she said it.
‘You forget who you speak to,’ Naaima said, and her voice was iron. ‘What was I, but a maid? I was a concubine, Neferata. I was a lower possession than a horse or hound. And you found use for me.’
Neferata looked at her handmaiden, eyes narrowing. ‘Are you challenging me?’
‘Yes,’ Naaima said simply. She neither bowed her head nor looked away. Between them, the girl moaned again, piteously.
Nonplussed, Neferata hesitated. She brushed a lock of the girl’s hair out of her face. ‘It is too late. I cannot save her,’ she said.
‘You can.’
Neferata met Naaima’s eyes and the former Queen of Lahmia was the first to look away. ‘What is her name?’ she asked hoarsely.
‘Layla,’ Naaima reminded her. ‘Her father was killed by the orcs. She used to work in the kitchens of Ushoran’s palace. The other girls accused her of putting on airs, and the cook beat her for being disrespectful. She does not know her place, and she does not fear the dark. That is why I took her.’
‘More fool she,’ Neferata said. Tenderly, she took the girl from Naaima and tilted her, so that her head lolled against Neferata’s shoulder. Then, with a sigh, she sank her fangs into the girl’s throat, drinking deeply and stabbing to the root of the girl’s life.
The blood-kiss was a sacred thing. It was a gift from Neferata to her chosen followers. As much as she took, she gave as well. It was a bond, forever linking her to them and vice-versa. Holding the girl, she extended her arm and Naaima took her wrist and forearm and bent her head. Her lips brushed the inside of Neferata’s wrist and then, with a sharp, bright flash of sweet pain, she opened her mistress’s veins. Neferata raised her bloody mouth from Layla’s throat and pressed her wrist to the girl’s slack lips. Her fingers curled as her hand flexed and blood rushed out, black and thick, into the girl’s mouth. ‘Drink, Layla,’ Neferata crooned. ‘Drink, scullery maid, or die.’
‘Drink,’ Naaima said, stroking the girl’s throat with light fingers. ‘Drink,’ they said together, quietly. And Layla coughed and gasped and began to drink. Weakly at first, and then desperately, clutching Neferata’s wrist tightly. She began to shudder and jerk, and a black, noisome fluid began to weep from her wounds as Neferata’s blood began to circulate through her veins.
‘What is happening to her?’ Naaima said, looking horrified. Neferata had no answer for her. Layla jerked and groaned as her skin lost what little colour it had and her hair turned silver. Finally, the girl lay quiet in her arms, almost as if asleep. Neferata could see the cold darkness in the centre of her that marked her as a vampire.
Layla was not the first vampire she had made within the city, nor would she be the last, but nonetheless this time had seemingly awakened something – something which spoke to her out of that darkness, startling her. The voice used no words, but memories. Cra
shing, slashing images of times long past.
Alcadizzar’s breath, harsh in his lungs, washing over her as they crashed into one another. He was her child, though she had not borne him. He was of her blood. And now he yearned for her end. His dagger pierced her chest, seeking her heart with deadly intent.
She screamed, more from the agony of betrayal, of dreams hammered to dust, than from the pain. But as she crouched, bent over the blade jutting from her chest, Alcadizzar stared at her sadly as the wind wiped him away, one grain of flesh at a time. His eyes were the last to go, pain-ridden orbs that begged, even as they condemned.
A shape that was as black as the spaces between the stars stood in his place, its outline writ in green balefire. A voice that seemed to echo in the marrow of her bones rattled across her ears, speaking deplorable words, and inflicting a nightmare cancer of alien sound on the world. Around her, the sands shifted and slid, revealing spear-points and sword-tips and the curved, flayed-smooth skull caps of the tomb-legions.
A hundred generations rose from the howling sands and began to march on clattering, fleshless feet. Kings and queens and priests and nobles and peasants marched without complaint or identity forever through the darkness, drawn on by the needle-on-bone voice of the black shape.
THEY ARE MINE. NOW AND FOREVER, THEY ARE MINE, it said. EVEN AS YOU ARE MINE, QUEEN OF THE CITY OF THE DAWN. COME TO ME. COME–
‘No!’ Neferata shrieked, clutching at her head. Naaima darted forwards, grabbing Layla as she slid from Neferata’s grip.
‘Neferata, what is it?’ the other woman said.
Neferata’s claws dug into her scalp and black blood rolled down into her face. She turned away from her handmaiden, and fought to control the emotions that raged across her normally serene features. Something tugged and tore at the back of her mind, but with brutal, practised effort, she forced it back and deep.
Neferata Page 13