Neferata

by Josh Reynolds

  Volker sat back on his saddle and tugged on his beard. ‘Aye,’ he said suspiciously.

  ‘The dawi are the finest weapons-makers in the world,’ Neferata said, extending the spear so that the tip rested beneath Volker’s nose. ‘This spear, for instance.’

  Volker grabbed the weapon and looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. He rubbed his calloused thumb along the edge. His eyes flickered up to Neferata. ‘You would trade us weapons?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘For what price would you do this?’

  ‘Blood and bone,’ Neferata said, smiling.

  Later, as the hunters, now satiated, rode back towards Mourkain, Stregga’s horse fell into a trot beside Neferata’s. ‘Vorag is eager for the coming war, my lady,’ the vampire said.

  ‘Then he’ll fit right in with these barbarians,’ Neferata murmured. ‘What else?’

  ‘He’s angry. The northern expedition–’

  ‘The northern expedition is nothing.’ Neferata shook her head. Vorag’s temper was like a storm. It was a constant struggle to keep it in check and to keep it from upsetting her delicate web of schemes. Still, he was less disruptive than Khaled. ‘Assure him that there will be glory aplenty in the mountains. He will once more be the saviour of Strigos, and Abhorash will not be around to steal his victory.’ The Great Land was gone, and Ushoran’s attempt to recreate it was doomed to failure. But there might be something worth saving from those ashes, Neferata thought. A society that could be moulded into something greater than it currently was. The way forward was not as the wolf or the leopard, but as the flea or the tick. A dead host was nothing but rotten meat. But a live one could keep her and her followers in comfort for eternity.

  But a live host required careful pruning of anything that might endanger it. The orcs, for instance; but with the barbarian tribes, and Vorag’s men, the orcs would be easy enough to destroy. She had learned much over the course of the past century, fighting and manipulating them. Now was the time to put all that knowledge to use. The orcs had outlived their usefulness and their violent antics were more hindrance than help.

  Wazzakaz’s Waaagh! had been crashing like a green ocean around the rock of Karaz Bryn for close to three decades now. The great shaman himself had gone from a vigorous, mad, bad bastard of an orc to a withered, hunched thing that cackled and rocked in its saddle. Her spies had kept tabs on the creature, and had watched the ebb and flow of the siege of Karaz Bryn.

  She had sent messengers to the Silver Pinnacle, offering the aid of Strigos. Razek had yet to respond. Whether that was due to dwarf stubbornness or the war-effort, she could not say, though she expected that it was the former.

  The next month was given over to the dull routine of preparation. Neferata stayed out of it for the most part – Vorag knew his own business, and she had no interest in second-guessing his preparations for the war to come. Instead, she concentrated on other, more important matters.

  Namely, finding out what W’soran was up to.

  She had spent decades rooting out the traitors and would-be regicides in the court of Mourkain; some, like Zandor, had been convinced to accept what scraps were offered. Others had been dealt with quietly. Nonetheless, one had escaped every trick and trap she had set. W’soran was plotting; she knew this as surely as she knew that he knew that she was doing the same.

  But so far, she had caught not a hint or whisper of just what it was that he was plotting to do. He did not want to rule, such was not one of W’soran’s desires. The urge to know what he was hiding had become almost unbearable.

  Neferata stalked through the halls that W’soran had claimed near the peak, ignoring the whispers and glances of W’soran’s disciples as they hurried about in their cowls and robes even as she ignored the dead who moved stiffly about certain unwholesome tasks.

  Even as her own numbers had increased, so too had W’soran’s. Of them all, only Abhorash resisted the temptation to share his blood-kiss with others, save for his few followers. She did not know whether that suggested weakness or strength on his part. Perhaps it was simply the old familiar stubbornness that had so characterised her former champion in better, brighter times.

  Not all of W’soran’s followers were vampires, however. Like some virulent strain of plague, the vampire-disciples had taken apprentices of their own, creating a strange, semi-cultic hierarchy. Only one had not done so. And it was that one she was on her way to see.

  W’soran’s creatures went up and down in their master’s favour like a fisherman’s cog on the waves. Sometimes one would be the favourite and then another. Morath was out this week, it seemed. He was out often; refusing W’soran’s bite was tantamount to spitting in the old leech’s face.

  She smiled. Morath had courage, of a sort. Not a physical bravery, but a mental fortitude that she admired. If circumstances had been different, she would have given him her blood-kiss. As it was, he could still prove useful, in the right circumstances.

  Circumstances like these, for instance.

  Finding out what W’soran was up to had become an itch that needed scratching. What higher matters, what concerns occupied the necromancer deep in his lair in the mountain? Why did he only go to the pyramid on certain nights? And why did he inevitably leave with fewer acolytes than he entered with?

  The floor vibrated quietly with the rumble of the mine-works below in the guts of the mountain. More than gold was being dredged out of the dark now. She paused for a moment, listening. The gold would go to good cause. It could be used to open up trade routes to Cathay and Araby, and even Ind. Too, thanks to the whispered influences of her handmaidens, the barbarians over the mountains and to the north now desired it, though they had little practical use for it.

  W’soran was even crafting a golden crown for the Draesca brute, Volker. Knowing W’soran, the crown would likely be more than just mere metal, but that was of little import. No, what was important was that the crown – that all of the gifts – would bind the savages to Strigos. Here in these wild hills she was perfecting the arts she had learned in Cathay and employed in Araby. War was a blunt tool, at best. Conquest could be achieved more easily by simply convincing the enemy that they were more like you than they’d thought. Familiarity bred more than just contempt, it also bred complacency. In a few centuries, the wildling tribes would fold easily and with little complaint into the Strigoi empire.

  The same tactics could be applied personally. Seduction was more potent than fear, and took less effort to maintain. She had considered Melkhior at first, but found the idea of drawing too close to that creature repugnant.

  But Morath was different. In his own way, the necromancer reminded her of Abhorash. Ushoran had forced him to accept W’soran’s tutelage, wanting a man inside whatever spider’s web the foul creature was sure to weave in his new lair. And it seemed only fitting that Neferata now take Morath under her wing.

  She knew his scent now. It was stale, like crypt air, but lacking the rotten undercurrent that so many of W’soran’s creatures emanated. The room was small as such places went in the hold. Bats fluttered in brass cages and jars of strange liquids sat on benches and shelves. Papyrus and scrolls were strewn everywhere, scattered amongst stacks of clay tablets from the Southlands and hairy books from the ice-lands far to the north. W’soran’s agents had been scouring the world for centuries, hunting up precious bits of sorcerous know-ledge for some purpose she did not yet fathom.

  It all tied into the pyramid somehow. And the hunched figure sitting before her, with his back to her, would tell her how.

  ‘My lady,’ Morath said without turning around. ‘The spirits bound to these old stones spoke of your coming.’

  ‘Did they? And did they also impart my reason for coming here?’ she said as she came up behind him.

  ‘No, they did not.’ Morath flinched as Neferata stroked his arm. ‘Why are you here?’ he said, not looking u
p from the scroll unrolled before him.

  ‘Call it curiosity,’ she said, peering over his shoulder. She clucked her tongue. ‘Fell magics indeed.’

  Morath looked at her. ‘What would you know of it?’

  Neferata shook her head. ‘Me? Nothing, of course. W’soran’s brood do not share their secrets with just anyone…’ She traced his cheek with a claw, eliciting a thin trail of blood and a wince.

  ‘What do you want, my lady?’ he said.

  ‘I should have thought that that would be obvious, Lord Morath,’ she said, gently licking the blood from his cheek. He thrust away from her, knocking over the table and starting awkwardly to his feet. She could hear his heart thudding in his chest like a war-drum and see his blood pulsing in his veins. The smell of his fear was intoxicating. She frowned, restraining the urge to leap on him and feed until he had been bled white.

  ‘No,’ he said harshly. ‘No, no. I’ve been around your kind too long. I’m not as foolish as that oaf, Vorag, panting after that–’

  ‘Careful,’ Neferata said mildly, looking at the scroll. Morath swallowed then snatched it away from her.

  ‘This is not for your eyes,’ he said. Neferata looked at him. Morath was handsome, in a way. He was no brute like Vorag, but there was none of the lean beauty of the men of her people either. He was hard-faced, all flat planes and angles and sharp words and edges.

  ‘It could be, if you gave it to me,’ she said, holding out her hand.

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  ‘Because only I can protect you from the trap you find yourself in. Ushoran can’t – or won’t. And W’soran is the cause of your nervousness, unless I miss my guess.’ She took his abandoned seat and leaned back against the desk, smiling slightly.

  Morath swallowed. ‘You see much.’

  ‘I see everything,’ Neferata said. ‘He is angry with you, isn’t he? Because you have chosen not to accept his kiss, I’d wager.’

  Morath said nothing. Neferata nodded as if he had. ‘Did you know that it was he who first convinced my husband Lamashizzar to search for the secret of immortality? Even then, far before your people had even grasped the rudiments of agriculture, W’soran was scheming to cheat death.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t he?’ Morath said. ‘Why shouldn’t we all? Our empire could persist forever with that power at our disposal!’

  ‘Then why have you not accepted it?’

  Morath paused. ‘It is not the same thing. What you are is not what I wish to be. I’ll not be a slave to my hungers for eternity–’

  Neferata shot to her feet, forcing Morath back a step. ‘A slave, is it? Is that how you see me, Morath of Mourkain?’ she said in mock anger.

  ‘Are you saying you’re not? A slave to your bloodlust, a slave to that black presence which–’ he began, and then stopped abruptly.

  ‘The presence which – what? – lies perhaps in that pyramid,’ Neferata said, and gestured loosely in the direction of the pyramid. She swayed closer to Morath, trailing her fingertips across his robes. ‘What is in that strange barrow, Morath? Why do I feel some black malevolence in those stones? And why does your master seek to hide it from me, eh?’

  ‘Because Ushoran requires it,’ he said, stumbling back. ‘I think you should leave.’

  ‘Are you afraid of me, Morath?’ she purred, staring into his eyes. She prodded at the sharp edges of his will – it was a thing of razors and brittle strength. One flex and it would crumble like grit in her clutches.

  He forced himself to look away, flinging out a hand. Something sparked between them and Neferata staggered. Smoke rose from her burned hand and she hissed. ‘What was that?’ she snarled, lunging for him. He avoided her grip, raising his hands. Neferata hesitated. She had allowed her anger and impatience to get the better of her once again. Even as she cursed herself, she sought to present a calm facade.

  ‘Your power is far greater than I thought, Morath,’ she said, stepping back.

  ‘If W’soran were here–’

  ‘He’d let me try and torture the secret out of you. Or kill you himself to spite me,’ she said gently. She could see the truth of those words strike home. ‘You know enough of him, of what he is, to know that whatever he is up to, it is not for the benefit of your people.’

  Morath stiffened. His hands drooped. She resisted the urge to smile. Like Abhorash, he thought himself a hero, a man doing his best for his people, when really he was as much prey to his lusts as any of her handmaidens. The only difference was that his lust was for power rather than blood.

  ‘And you have the welfare of my people in mind?’ he said.

  ‘I have spent too many years building your people up to want to see them torn down, Morath of Mourkain,’ she said.

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  Now she did smile. ‘I only want just a bit of information, my friend, nothing more.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  Neferata leaned close and bent down. ‘What is W’soran afraid of?’ she whispered. ‘What does Ushoran desire that frightens even that old fiend?’

  Morath was silent for a moment. Then, with a croak, he said, ‘A crown.’

  ‘What?’ Neferata stepped back, uncertain.

  ‘Mourkain’s crown,’ Morath said. ‘Ushoran wants the crown of Kadon. And he will not rest until he has it.’ The words stabbed into Neferata’s head like nails of cold iron, each one tossing echoes into the depths of her being.

  As those echoes faded, something that was coiled in those dark depths lifted its head and Neferata felt a crawling chill spread throughout her person. ‘A crown,’ she whispered.

  And in the darkness, something both familiar and foul laughed.

  NINE

  The City of Bel Aliad

  (–1150 Imperial Reckoning)

  ‘What have you done, fool?’ Neferata snarled, slamming Khaled against the pillar hard enough to crack the ancient stone. He struggled in her grip, but could not break it. For all of the power he now possessed thanks to her kiss, Neferata would ever be his superior. She lifted him up, and his feet dangled a heartbeat from the floor, his heels drumming helplessly against the pillar.

  ‘I-I had to act!’ Khaled sputtered. ‘He was going to kill us!’

  ‘Fool!’ Neferata snarled again, punctuating the curse with another smash of Khaled’s spine against the pillar. ‘Did you lose your wits, or did you have none to begin with? Al-Khattab only moved because you sought to assert direct control of the caliph!’

  Khaled’s expression of injured innocence was wiped away at those words. ‘But–’ he began. Neferata made a sound of frustration and hurled him aside. He slid across the temple floor and the others were forced to move aside. Anmar made to go to his side as he hit the far wall, but Rasha and Naaima grabbed her, holding her back.

  ‘Let me go! She’ll kill him!’ Anmar shouted.

  ‘I won’t kill him, little leopard,’ Neferata said dismissively. ‘That would be both foolish and a waste. Your brother is, as yet, necessary.’ She turned and strode towards Khaled as he clambered to his feet. ‘Fortunately for you, I have no time to devise a suitable punishment. How many men in your father’s court can we count on?’

  ‘Many, my lady,’ Khaled said. Neferata grabbed his chin.

  ‘Define “many”,’ she said.

  ‘A third, maybe more,’ Khaled said reluctantly. ‘The nobility is suspicious of the cult, save for those of us with – ah – certain interests.’ His face hardened. ‘He would have listened to me! I know it!’

  ‘Why?’ Neferata said contemptuously, releasing him. ‘Because you are a hero?’

  ‘Because I am his son!’

  ‘He has many sons,’ Neferata said, turning her back on him. ‘No… You have tipped our hand, my Kontoi. You have shown the murder-lust in our hearts to our false friends. Al-Khattab is determined
to exterminate us.’ She lifted her head, scenting the air that blew through the temple. ‘Even now, they come with fire and steel.’

  ‘They will be as sand beneath our hooves,’ Rasha said, swinging the sword she had taken from one of the assassins earlier.

  ‘Yes,’ Khaled said eagerly. ‘What better way to prove our power, than to kill our enemies? We will show my people the might of our cult and sever the head of the snake who threatens us in one fell swoop!’ He spread his hands. ‘My queen, you will have a kingdom again…’

  Neferata stiffened. She turned, her eyes burning. Khaled blanched and scrambled backwards. ‘I wanted an empire,’ Neferata snarled. ‘What need have I of some petty caliphate? We could have had all of Araby! More, even. And all for the price of pretending that we had nothing at all!’ Her face lengthened and spread, becoming feline. Her slender frame rippled with animal muscle as she advanced on Khaled. ‘And now we will have nothing – nothing!’

  ‘But, Bel Aliad–’ he began.

  ‘Bel Aliad is a blister on the hide of the desert! Damn Bel Aliad and damn you, you waste of blood!’ Neferata shrieked, slapping him. Khaled spun and fell. Neferata howled. The inhuman sound echoed from pillar to post, descending into the deep vaults of the temple of Mordig.

  And something answered her.

  Throughout the temple, the great stone wells that led down into the night-black abysses beneath the sands of Araby suddenly echoed with the sounds of scrabbling talons as the children of the ghoul-god responded to the summons of their queen. The tomb-legions burst into the flickering light of the torches, a pale cancerous horde of ghouls that flooded the corridors of the temple.

  Neferata had tamed them, in the first years of her freedom. Alone, she had descended into the deep vaults and fought the ghast-kings for control of their subterranean empires. Alone, she had returned with the fearful loyalty of the ghoul-tribes assured and the heads of a dozen ghast-kings tied about her naked waist.