Neferata

FOUR

The Great Desert

(–1154 Imperial Reckoning)

The desert tribesmen ululated wildly as they shook their weapons at the night sky. The victory had been swift and decisive. The Nehekharan pickets had never known what hit them, so swiftly had the tribes struck. Out here, on the edge of the Great Desert, the warriors of Nehekhara had grown lax and soft and they had paid for their inattentiveness with their lives. In contrast, the tribesmen were savages, clinging precariously to a harsh and unforgiving existence that had made them hard and fierce.

Neferata reclined on a pile of cushions, smiling benignly as she sipped from a cup of blood. She was clad in iron armour, bloodstained now. Naaima crouched nearby, speaking softly to Rasha. Neferata considered eavesdropping then dismissed the idea. There was no cause to suspect that Naaima was doing anything more than teaching her newest handmaiden some detail or other about her new existence. Neferata examined the young woman, smiling slightly. Rasha, a chieftain’s daughter, had taken well to immortality. She had ripped out her own father’s throat and butchered her brothers for Neferata. Women, even chieftains’ daughters, were not treated well in the desert.

With Rasha’s tribe beneath her thumb, she had swiftly brought others to heel through similar methods – chieftains and warlords torn to pieces by daughters and wives in nightly orgies of long-repressed violence. She glanced around at her new handmaidens; twenty in all, they reclined or supped on the bodies of captives taken in the raid. The garrison soldiers had been strung upside down from posts within the tent and their blood dripped into clay basins. As she watched, a woman lapped at the blood like a cat, her hair trailing through it. What the tribesmen thought of the peculiarities of their new mistress, she had never bothered to inquire.

Several thousand of the nomads flocked to her night-black banners now. Some hailed her as the personification of the Desert Snake, others called her Mother Night. It was all the same to Neferata. As long as they served, they could call her what they liked.

She looked over at the body of the young outpost warden from whom she had been supping. He was cold now, and blank-eyed. She clucked her tongue; she had taught Alcadizzar better than that, she had thought. The nomads of the Great Desert rose and fell like the tides, and their loyalties with them. It had been some time since some of their number had given shelter to the fugitive Rasetran prince, and the impositions he had made since – curtailing their traditions of raid and plunder – had put many of them in a hostile mood.

Instead of bolstering the outposts, however, he had begun to pull his troops into Nehekhara proper. Neferata took a sip of still-warm blood. Something was going on. She could smell it on the wind… There was a carrion stink that put her in mind of old friends. There were rumours flying through the camps, of dead men walking and plague and pox and old evils newly returned. Black smoke had been seen belching from the mountains on the shores of the Sour Sea.

She closed her eyes, considering. Something had turned Alcadizzar’s eyes away to the north. Now was the time to attack. Now was–

The shriek was a monstrous thing, loud enough to flatten men and tents. The wind whipped and curled, hurling sand and sparks into the air. Something massive crossed through the sky above the tent, titan wings beating thunderously.

Neferata leaped to her feet, tossing aside her cup and its dregs of blood and snatching up her sword. She drew the tulwar and tossed aside the goat-hide sheath as she bounded out of her tent, followed closely by Naaima and Rasha and her other handmaidens.

The shrieking thing landed in the centre of the camp. It was as large as three horses and eyes like campfires blazed at the scattering tribesmen as a great spear-blade nose quivered and needle-studded jaws gaped hungrily. Sharp ears unfurled from the square head and its wings were tattered sails. It shrieked again, and several of Neferata’s handmaidens clapped their hands to their ears.

On the back of the bat-creature, a familiar figure sat, jerking the reins to control his obscene mount. Tattered robes did little to conceal the cadaverous nature of the rider and as his sunken features turned towards her Neferata snarled in recognition.

‘W’soran!’ she growled, loping towards her old high priest, murder in her eyes. She leapt up onto one of the great beast’s wings as it slid across the ground near her and scrambled towards its back, her sword at the ready.

‘I bring you greetings, mighty queen,’ W’soran cackled. ‘I bring you greetings from your lord and master, Nagash!’

Neferata sprang towards W’soran, her sword licking out towards his scrawny neck as the name of the Great Necromancer struck a painful chord in her. Black lightning crackled from his talon-like fingers, catching her in mid-leap and flinging her back into her tent, which collapsed atop her. As she floundered free, she saw her handmaidens engaging the laughing maniac and his pet monster. One of her servants was slapped from the air by one of the beast’s talons, her marble form disintegrating from the force of the impact. Neferata screamed and tore her way free of the tent.

As she made to return to the fray, something heavy struck her and flung her forwards. She rolled to her feet and slashed out with her sword, striking only shadows. ‘He sensed you, Neferata,’ Ushoran hissed, crouching some feet away. His bulky form was huddled beneath a thick robe, but she recognised her former advisor well enough. ‘Nagash desires that you join him.’

‘Join, or serve?’ Neferata replied.

‘One is much the same as the other,’ Ushoran said, shrugging.

‘You throw over your loyalties quickly, Lord of Masks,’ Neferata said.

Ushoran growled, and his talons flexed. ‘Lahmia is dead, Neferata. It is ruined and blasted and gone. Just like all of Nehekhara will be, when Nagash gets finished with it!’

Neferata lunged. Ushoran sprang backwards, narrowly avoiding her strike. ‘Nehekhara and Lahmia are mine! Not Nagash’s and not Alcadizzar’s!’

‘You cannot defy his will, Neferata,’ Ushoran said, his claws skittering across her armour. ‘He will have you, one way or another!’

‘Then let him come for me himself!’ Neferata snarled, backhanding Ushoran. He flew backwards, caught by surprise. She spun to see W’soran flinging magical blasts at her handmaidens. As far away as she was, she could smell his desperation. Her handmaidens were fast and strong, neither of which could be applied to the withered vampire. They had expected to overawe her, to strike her dumb with Nagash’s name and their power. But she would not–

YOU WILL.

Neferata screamed as a mind like the cold of the tomb invaded hers. The words echoed and re-echoed, shattering her thoughts. She grabbed her head and staggered. The night spun around her.

YOU WILL SERVE ME.

‘No!’ Neferata howled, clawing at her head. With a despairing scream, she wrenched herself around and began to run, away from the camp, and away from Nehekhara. Away from her plans and hopes and desires, Nagash’s thoughts battering at her as she ran.

The Worlds Edge Mountains

(–800 Imperial Reckoning)

Beyond the thunderous crashing of the wild river, Mourkain rose stark from the mountain. The city was surrounded by a heavy wooden palisade in concentric and ever-shrinking rings that jutted from the rocky slope. Smoke rose from within, striping the air with greasy trails. The decaying bodies of orcs and beastmen had been impaled on great, greased stakes lining the approaches to the palisade. The bodies, both bulky and green and malformed and hairy, were in bad condition and a flock of crows had claimed them for their own.

‘They attack every few months,’ Vorag said, swatting at a dangling green leg with his sword. ‘Not big on learning lessons, the urka.’

Neferata said, ‘And the beasts?’

Vorag grinned, displaying his fangs. ‘When the urka are thinned out, the beasts take their place.’ He sheathed his sword.

‘And vice-versa, I assume,’ Neferata said.

‘Ha! Yes,’ Vorag said, laughing and slapping his thigh. ‘The beasts are better hunting, but the urka have a better flavour. Or they did,’ he said, frowning slightly. Neferata smiled knowingly. Vorag glanced at her and his frown deepened. ‘You are strong. The Red Dragon is frightened of you.’

Neferata hesitated. ‘Abhorash, you mean?’

Vorag spat a wad of bloody phlegm to the ground. ‘Yes. That is what the people call him, “the Red Dragon”. Wearing all that iron, like the scales of one of those beasts.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s no way for a warrior to fight,’ he said.

‘You don’t much care for him, do you?’

Vorag’s only reply was to spit again. Neferata chuckled. Before she could reply, the strident groan of horns from the top of the palisade broke the air. Neferata looked to the gates, which were being pushed open by a line of men in dark jerkins and hoods. The smell of men and animals and the detritus left by both washed over Neferata.

‘I’ve smelled nicer dung-heaps,’ Khaled murmured, earning a baleful glare from Vorag.

‘Surely you have not forgotten the smells of a military camp, son of Muntasir,’ Abhorash said, urging his horse forwards. Khaled frowned. Vorag made a similar expression as Abhorash joined them.

‘I forget nothing,’ Khaled snapped. Neferata laid a hand on his arm.

‘My followers do not, as a rule, often find themselves in such places,’ she said smoothly. ‘I have better uses for them than to waste them in battle.’

Abhorash grunted and Vorag laughed. The latter clapped Khaled on the shoulder. ‘This will be a treat for you then, my lady!’ he said as they rode through the gates. Neferata caught a strange, sweet stink from the men who had opened the gate. They stood as still as statues as the riders passed by, barely moving even when one of the horses came too close.

Beyond the palisade, ancient stones which might have been the remnants of some long ago destroyed wall rose up here and there, linked anew by more palisades. And beyond those stones… Mourkain. Neferata twitched the reins and her horse came to a halt. The crumbling stone walls of Mourkain rose up at an almost impossible angle, careening towards the sky.

Her first impression was one of age. Something had always been in this place, whether its name was Mourkain or not. It was a city in the same way that Lahmia had been, grown over centuries by generations, spreading first behind the river and then over it. Within the palisade, a great stone gateway rose, blocking access to a wide bridge of thick wooden logs that led to a second, smaller gate. Beneath the bridge, the river crashed and snarled, and even at this distance, she could feel the spray. She looked up at the first gate and saw that its bulk was punctuated by hundreds of alcoves packed with skulls. Some of the skulls were brown with age, while others glistened white and clean. Each of the skulls seemed to be looking at her and she recalled her first sight of the place, under the influence of whatever had called her here, and felt a chill caress her spine.

Neferata knew that Mourkain, for all that it might seem to be a living thing, was in truth a city of death.

With a squeal of fibre on stone, the stone gates swung outwards. As they opened, Neferata saw a network of thick ropes connecting the hinges of the outer gate to the inner, and felt a brief burst of admiration. The outer gates could be controlled from within the city proper, as long as the ropes held. And if the ropes were cut, the stone gates would remain closed and the bridge sealed off.

She brought her horse to a halt and let the column move past her onto the bridge, until the stumping form of Razek came abreast of her horse. The dwarf’s powers of recuperation had proven far more impressive than she had anticipated. The bleeding had stopped a few days earlier and scabbing had begun, and the wounds smelled clean. Privately, she was impressed with the dwarf’s constitution. A human would have died from the wounds he had taken, but Razek was on his feet within a few days of the mauling, and had insisted on walking. She looked down at the dwarf. ‘I believe we have arrived,’ she said.

‘Aye. Impressive, isn’t it?’ Razek said, his tone indicating that he thought it was anything but.

‘Yes,’ Neferata said. She kept her horse to a trot, so that she could keep pace with the dwarf. If he noticed the courtesy, he gave no sign. Then, he could have viewed it as an insult. They moved across the bridge, and she glanced down, at the river. It was no small thing, and seemed far deeper than she was used to.

‘It goes down as deep as the mountain’s roots,’ Razek said. ‘Dark things swim in it.’

They passed beneath the interior gate, and Neferata’s nostrils flared. The smells of the city were intoxicating after so long in the wilderness. Thousands of warm, beating hearts greeted her, pumping the hot richness of human blood, and she sucked in a breath. ‘How many live here?’ she hissed. There were merchants stalls set up along the interior wall and the crumbling lean-tos of the kmut – the poor dregs of the city. Harsh accents barked offers to the teeming throngs and a wave of sound seemed to envelop her, as she was reminded of her youth and the days when she would sneak from her father’s palace and mingle among the commoners on the docks, watching the great ships slide in on the tide.

‘Who can say?’ Razek said. ‘You humans breed like lice.’ He grunted, looking around. ‘It’s been a long time, as you manlings calculate it, since I’ve been here. Since any of my people have been here.’

‘And with good reason, Thane Silverfoot,’ a harsh voice said. ‘But things are different now. You have our most humble assurances.’

Neferata turned. A broad-shouldered, broken-nosed man trotted towards them, thumbs hooked into a wide leather belt. He had a number of guards with him, dressed as Abhorash’s men, in heavy armour and ornate helms. They pushed through the crowd like sharks through a school of fish. Neferata inhaled his scent and repressed an instinctive curl of her lip. Like Vorag, there was a grave-mould whiff to the newcomer. It was a deep stink that Razek either didn’t notice or, perhaps, put down to a more human stench.

‘Mourkain extends its greetings and its sorrows on your loss, mighty thane,’ the man said, spreading his palm and bowing his head. ‘We shall scour the hills for the beasts who–’

‘Already taken care of, Strezyk,’ Razek said brusquely, gesturing to Neferata.

‘Oh?’ Strezyk glanced at Neferata, who stood. The other vampire stepped back a half-step, his eyes widening slightly. ‘Vorag mentioned newcomers, but–’

‘I bear the Strigoi no grudge for this,’ Razek continued, more formally. ‘Our negotiations will continue as planned.’

Strezyk opened his mouth as if to admonish the dwarf for speaking in front of Neferata, but then closed it with a snap. Collecting himself, he again looked at her. ‘And who might you be?’

‘Neferata of Lahmia,’ she said. Strezyk paused then shook himself.

‘Hetman Ushoran has been waiting for your arrival,’ he said, a patently false smile spreading across his broad features.

‘He was expecting us?’ Neferata said, slightly surprised.

‘Oh yes, he has been aware of your coming for many weeks now,’ Strezyk said smoothly. ‘I shall escort you to the High Lodge.’

Neferata’s thoughts crashed together fast and sharp. Was Ushoran then the cause of her visions? Was he compelling her to come to him somehow? Her hands clenched and her nails sank into her skin. The pain brought her back to herself a moment later. Was it Ushoran’s voice in her head, crooning to her?

‘He’s a greased spoke and no two ways there,’ Razek muttered, too low for Strezyk to hear. The armoured soldiers, the vojnuk according to what Vorag had taught her, formed up around them, not so close as to be insulting, but not so far as to be ignored.

‘Who is he?’ Neferata said.

‘The new king’s hearth-warden,’ Razek said, distaste evident.

Neferata grunted, understanding what he meant, though she had never heard the term before. So, Ushoran had his own Lord of Masks now, did he? Maybe Strezyk was more cunning than his master, but Neferata doubted it. ‘Tell me about the new king,’ she said.

‘Why don’t you tell me?’ Razek said, eyeing her. ‘He seems to be a friend of yours, eh?’

Neferata looked at the dwarf, but said nothing. King Ushoran. The thought was neither amusing, nor pleasant. In Lahmia, Ushoran had served as her shadowed left hand, as Abhorash was her strong right one. It was Ushoran who had gathered those who were chosen to sacrifice their lives and blood to the Lahmian Court, so that the sun would rise and the world would turn and the city prosper. It was Ushoran who had failed to find Alcadizzar after the latter had escaped her clutches and it was Ushoran who had ruined everything by turning Nagash’s eye upon them.

Ushoran had destroyed Lahmia. He had destroyed her kingdom and now, he welcomed her to his. One way or another, she was determined to make him regret it. She turned back to the city. The streets of Mourkain were like lines drawn on parchment, crossing one another over and over again. The city was a spiral of stone, with crude thatch huts and lean-tos giving way to more sturdy stone dwellings and finally the great buildings that seemed to form the heart of the city. The streets were choked with the smells and sights and sounds of a thriving, vibrant metropolis.

The Strigoi were an uncivilised-looking folk, but sturdy. Hardy, even, and their blood pumped bright in their veins as Neferata examined them. They all carried weapons, even the lowest among them, and they were a pale folk, with dark hair. A young people, as hers judged such things, barely out of the mire of the caves. But they had accomplished much in a short period of time.

And all, apparently, without the help of the gods; she saw no sign of temples or priests. The priestess in her rebelled at the thought… though she had long since turned from her own gods, the idea of them not even being represented was hard to grasp. Indeed, it was a weakness. A people with no faith were open to exploitation. She gave a soft laugh. These were thoughts for the future.

As they moved through the city, Neferata’s followers rejoined her, slipping between Strezyk’s men to form a barrier between their mistress and the armoured warriors. The column thinned as they approached the centre of the city; Vorag’s men stayed behind, in the lower streets, but Strezyk led Neferata and her companions on. The burly vampire gave her a grin and a wave as he departed. He had noticed Strezyk’s presence, and seemed to know what it meant. Abhorash and his two men, however, followed at a distance, staying a respectful distance from Strezyk’s group. She wondered if her former champion thought that she might try and flee.

When she saw the pyramid, she knew that the answer was ‘yes’.

Neferata was careful not to let her emotions show on her face as she looked up at the monstrosity of stone. It rose up suddenly, like a leopard springing from a tree. It was a massive structure, bristling with outcroppings and crude structural additions that seemed to serve no purpose save ornament.

It was a pyramid in name only; the resemblance was a superficial one. It was a crude mockery of the great pyramids of Nehekhara, devised by barbaric minds and built by unskilled hands. Heavy dark stones had been piled atop one another much like the grim barrows which dotted the northern lands. It careened high above the city, and stable growths of structure flourished along its length. There were narrow windows and balconies and things that might have been towers.

It crouched like a beast over the winding river which encircled and ran through Mourkain, and the rest of the city seemed to recoil from it, as if in fear. She knew at once, with an instinct honed by years of dealing with dark magics and ill omens, that this was the source of the black sun that had so tormented her.

‘This is bigger than I remember,’ Razek said, looking up at the pyramid. ‘Old Kadon built it, the mad bugger. Back before we stopped coming here…’ He trailed off, clutching his axe more tightly.

‘This way, if you please,’ Strezyk said, leading them towards the ornate doors that marked the entrance to the pyramid. As they neared them, Neferata felt something dark and beautiful surround her, like a bouquet of poisonous blossoms. The pain of earlier was swept aside by a rush of strange pleasure. She reached out to touch the rock and was rewarded by a pleasant tingle.

This, this was why she had come here. This place… Whatever was within called to her.

A clash of spears brought her back to herself. Men in ornate bronze armour blocked the doorway, their spears crossed over the aperture. ‘I thought you said that Ushoran wished to see us,’ Neferata said to Strezyk.

He nodded. ‘He wishes to see you, my lady, and Thane Silverfoot as well, of course. But not your – ah – followers,’ he said. He gestured, and his men moved to surround and separate Naaima and the others. Khaled had his hand on his sword and the others looked to Neferata. Strezyk’s men weren’t vampires, and the fight would be swift, if it came. Neferata looked to Abhorash.

‘I will vouchsafe you,’ he said. ‘Not that you need it.’ He rubbed the dent she had put in his armour and for just a moment, some of the humour of old was there in his eyes. ‘It’s tradition.’

Neferata sniffed and looked at Naaima. ‘I will be fine,’ she said, nodding sharply.

‘Of course you will,’ Strezyk said. He waved a hand and the spears were retracted. ‘You are safer here than anywhere else, my lady. Hetman Ushoran has ensured it.’ The oily unctuous tone put her teeth on edge, but she said nothing. Fuming, she followed Strezyk. Naaima and the others stayed behind, guarded by Strezyk’s men.

Everything about the pyramid seemed to press down upon her as she entered, as if it sought to force her to crawl on her belly like an asp. The presence in her head was louder now, murmuring constantly, just behind her thoughts. It was stronger within than without, and an aura of darkness clung to the stones. It burned her eyes to look too long in any one direction and her bones felt brittle and cold within their envelope of weak flesh.

Death coiled waiting in this place. Death and something else; the faint odour of smoke filled her nostrils, and she pulled her fingers back from the walls and tried to banish the sudden surge of fear that tickled at the base of her mind. She heard screams and could not tell whether they came from within her mind or from somewhere in the pyramid.

‘Are you well, my lady?’ Strezyk said unctuously. He was looking at her knowingly and she resisted the urge to slap him from his feet.

‘I am fine,’ she said. ‘Lead on.’

Great statues that reminded her of the ushabti of home lined the corridors, and ancient wall frescoes and paintings spread between them. The latter were immediately recognisable as being in the lost styles of Numas, Quatar and even Lahmia. She stopped at points, staring at them, yearning to touch them. She had never expected to see such concrete reminders of home again. Even the tiles in the floor were the same as those which had once lined the path to the Women’s Palace.

Ushoran was trying to re-create Lahmia. The thought struck her like a hammer-blow. Rage followed a moment later. How dare he? He, whose actions had led to her city’s destruction, dared to make a mockery of that lost paradise by hanging tapestries and encouraging these savages in aping Nehekharan ways?

The corridors themselves were crafted from slabs of stone and, like the pyramids of home, they moved across from east to west, and then up south to north in a zigzag pattern. It was like following a well-worn path. She knew where it would come out, as she recalled the holy routes of the temples of home. And with every step she took, the whispering in her head grew stronger. It was almost painful in its intensity, and she fought to ignore it.

The throne room crouched in the web of corridors that surrounded it, nestled like a cancer in the heart of the pyramid. Smoking, glowing braziers were scattered throughout the room, their light revealing the high balconies and great expanse of floor. At the other end of the room, a great flat dais rose, and on it, a throne. The throne was made from the ribcage of some great beast and spread across the rear wall, and on that throne… Ushoran.

The Ushoran she had known had had many faces. Brutish, handsome, plain, young and old; there was a reason he had been given the title of Lord of Masks. With Ushoran, there was no telling whether or not the face you were seeing, the voice you were hearing, was his own or a disguise he was putting on for one reason or another.

He sits in your chair, the voice hissed. She ignored it, trying to concentrate on the familiar-yet-not figure sitting before her. The man on the dais looked nothing like the man she remembered, but his body language, his expression was the same; those told the truth of him. He was handsome now, but the ugliness of old was there, in the curl of his lip and the twinkle in his eye. If he saw her, he gave no sign. He sat on his throne, lounging like a Cathayan potentate, dressed much as his nobles – trousers and a jerkin belted at the waist with a strap of beaten gold, and golden armlets and bracers on his heavily muscled limbs. A sword lay against his throne, still sheathed. He had never been one for weapons; it was just for show, most likely.

The throne room was crowded with courtiers – men and women whose clothing, while crude by the standards of any civilised nation, was fine enough to speak to their relative position in Ushoran’s new hierarchy. In the sea of warm veins and throbbing pulses there were one or two spots of ugly cold. Vorag hadn’t been exaggerating. The men were swaggering bullies, not much different from Vorag – a warrior aristocracy, not long removed from the saddle. The women interested her more. They had the look of she-wolves barely broken to the leash. They had grown sleek on their husbands’ new statuses, but the hunger, the drive for more, lurked below the smiles and laughter. And, even more interestingly, none had been given the blood-kiss.

Of course, Ushoran had never been all that fond of women, beyond their more obvious qualities. A trait he had shared with her husband, Lamashizzar. It was a blind spot that a king could ill afford, let alone a spymaster.

She restrained a smile. It wasn’t hard. The situation was designed to annoy. One of Ushoran’s more prized abilities was being able to insert his hooks into the most painful soft point on psyche or physicality and to twist.

Ushoran wanted her to see him this way; to see him enshrined in glory. Or maybe he wanted her to do something foolish. That would be like him. His mind was crooked, and if Neferata was a leopardess, Ushoran was a spider. He wanted her to fly into his web.

Well, two could play at that game.

Razek stumped forwards at a gesture from Strezyk, cradling his axe in the crook of one brawny arm. It was a calculated insult, she knew, though whether by Strezyk or his master, she couldn’t say. ‘Hail, Ushoran, King of Strigos,’ Razek boomed, raising his free hand in greeting. ‘I, Razek Silverfoot, Thane of Karaz Bryn, bring you the greetings of my father, Borri Silverfoot, King of Karaz Bryn, which manlings call the Silver Pinnacle.’

Neferata blinked. That explained that. What little she knew of the dawi suggested they wouldn’t have sent just any warrior to open delicate negotiations, but a king’s son? That implied that this was something special or else that they took even the most routine political engagement extremely seriously. It also explained why he had been so secretive. Her mind spun off in new directions. Had the beast attack truly been what it seemed, or had something else been behind it?

‘You bring more than greetings, I trust, especially considering what you went through to get here,’ Ushoran said, chuckling. Dutiful laughter rose from the gathered court. Razek’s expression was like stone and Neferata hid a smile. Ushoran was a fool. In Lahmia, jape and jest had been the way of such things; informality hid the true currents of negotiation. But Razek was not human. And his greeting had told her everything about his view of such things. The dawi were a formal people, and Ushoran had just inadvertently insulted their official representative. Fool, she thought again.

‘Aye,’ Razek said as the sounds of amusement died away. He cleared his throat. ‘I offer you our hand in friendship, and oaths of trade and alliance.’ He proffered his hand in a ritualistic fashion.

‘I’d wager that hand is hoping to be filled with good Mourkain gold,’ Strezyk murmured to Ushoran in a too-loud voice. Razek’s face tightened and Neferata shook her head, amazed. It boggled her mind. How did Ushoran expect to do anything with fools like Strezyk serving him? It was disappointing. Whatever his other flaws, the Lord of Masks had at least been cunning while in her service. Perhaps he had lost his edge here in these uncivilised mountains.

Pay attention, she thought, focusing on the dais. Ushoran had been offered a truce and had launched an attack, though not a successful one. Contrary to popular opinion, it wasn’t always the weaker party who offered terms first; it was simply the party with the most to gain. Razek was talking again. She was impressed that the dwarf had held his temper; Naaima had said that they could be a volatile people. ‘Aye,’ Razek agreed. ‘We want your gold, as you want our artifice,’ he said bluntly. His temper might be holding, but it was definitely frayed if he had discarded formality, Neferata judged. ‘It seems a fair enough trade to us,’ Razek went on, setting his shoulders and raising his chin. ‘What about you, King of Strigos?’

Ushoran frowned. He had never liked being shown up, Neferata recalled with a flush of humour. ‘That is perhaps a conversation for a later time, Thane Silverfoot,’ he said, leaning back in his seat. ‘We have other matters to attend to this day.’ He waved and Strezyk clapped his hands. Men stepped forwards, surrounding the dwarf. For a moment, it looked as if Razek wasn’t going to move. Then, with a grunt and shrug, he turned to allow his escort to remove him from the hall. He glanced at Neferata as he stomped past. His face was unreadable. Regardless, she knew that it was a warning.

Strezyk clapped his hands again and she stepped forwards, leaving her own escort stumbling after her, trying to catch up. The crowd of backwoods nobles murmured. She ignored them.

‘We bid you greetings, Lady Neferata,’ Ushoran said, holding out his arms and stepping down the dais towards her. As she had noted before, the bland, innocuous Lord of Masks she remembered was gone, replaced by a handsome creature that seemed to have stepped straight out of a hero-myth. Even so, she caught a flickering glimpse of something else, a monstrous phantom shape superimposed over Ushoran. Which was his true form, she wondered?

‘Lady,’ she repeated, stepping forwards and flinging back the edge of her furs. ‘You forget yourself, Lord of Masks.’ She could sense the faint tremors in his web. What gambit would he employ? Would it be courtesy?

‘Neferata–’ Abhorash growled, making to step forwards. Ushoran gestured for him to remain where he was. He smiled at his former queen with apparent good humour.

‘No, my lady, I do not think that I do. Much has transpired since our last meeting,’ he said.

Neferata looked around the room, taking in the gathered faces. Though she did not know them, she recognised them well enough – the great and the good who clung like parasites to any throne. ‘So I see,’ she said.

‘I am hetman here, Neferata,’ Ushoran said, striding the rest of the way towards her. ‘From Mourkain, I rule the mountains of Strigos. Here is the seat of empire…’ he said grandly. A sudden burst of applause made him stop and raise a hand.

No, not courtesy then. He wanted her angry. That was her weak point.

‘Oh, well done,’ Neferata said. ‘Delightfully stage-managed, oh Lord of Masks.’

‘I am not the Lord of Masks any longer,’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘There are no masks in Mourkain. I am king. And it is only fitting that you should bow.’

Neferata burst out laughing. It was an obvious ploy. He had gone soft.

‘Impudent wench,’ Strezyk snarled, dragging the mace from his belt. He swung it at Neferata, intending to batter her off her feet. She whirled, ripping off her fur cloak as she did so and flinging it over his head. He roared and stumbled and then she was behind him. She sank into a crouch and her claws plunged into his legs, ripping through the leather of his boots to get to the flesh within. Strezyk screamed as he fell, hamstrung. Ushoran stepped back as his servant’s mace crashed to the floor.

Neferata rose and stepped over Strezyk’s thrashing form. The vampire was already healing, but he would be out of her hair for a few moments at least. She looked at Ushoran. Had that been planned? Was it a tug of the web? Ushoran retreated slowly up the dais, smiling insufferably at her. ‘As impressive as ever, my lady,’ he said. ‘Truly you are first among us, in power if not in status.’

‘The latter can be easily rectified, Ushoran,’ Neferata said, flicking blood from her fingers to the floor.

‘Implying what? Would you kill me?’ he said, laughing as he plopped back down into his throne. Abhorash’s men moved forwards warily. Neferata ignored them.

‘Kill you? No… You have proven yourself useful in the past, Ushoran. Perhaps you will again. But I am a queen. I do not bow.’ Two can tug on a strand, Ushoran, she thought.

‘And I am a king!’ Ushoran snapped. Ah, there it was. He had lost that mask of servility, at least. He had grown used to being master.

‘No, you are a fool and a fraud, clinging to a throne no doubt won through treachery and deceit,’ she said. His flinch told her that she had scored a point. She grinned. ‘I think it only fitting that you give me your kingdom, since you destroyed mine.’ I see your offer and raise, cunning one, she thought. A nervous titter rippled through the throne room.

Ushoran hissed. ‘Lahmia’s fall was not my fault, woman.’ His mask of civility was gone now too, to join the servility, replaced by a rage that was tinted more than a little with something that might have been madness. The armrests of his throne cracked in his grip, the stone turning to powder. ‘It was your madness! Your obsession with that puling princeling Alcadizzar! That was what damned us!’

It was Neferata’s turn to flinch. Too close to the truth not to hurt. She exposed her fangs and lunged up the steps, claws out. If he wanted her in the web, now was the time to dive in. Abhorash stepped forwards, placing himself between her and her prey as she knew he would. Predictable Abhorash, dependable Abhorash, still protecting her, even if he didn’t realise it. Her claws dug furrows in his mail and he grunted in shock as she sent him reeling. He countered by drawing his sword and forcing her to drop back down the step. Abhorash rose to his feet, the tip of the sword just beneath Neferata’s chin. She backed away slowly, arms held out. She could have pressed the matter if she had wished and he knew it.

‘Get out of my way, Abhorash,’ she said. ‘I would hate to kill you as well as him.’

‘Are you so maddened that you think you could get away with it?’ he said, looking at her with reproach. ‘Do you think that you can win a kingdom this way?’

Neferata looked around. Horrified eyes that belonged to human and vampire alike watched her much like a flock of birds might watch a snake slithering through the grass below them. Her face hardened as an icy calm replaced the only partially false fury that had filled her only moments before. Her own earlier words to Naaima filled her head – seek the advantage. ‘Maybe not hold one, but win one? Oh yes,’ she said calmly.

‘You’ve learned nothing in your years in the wilderness, I see,’ Ushoran growled.

‘Oh, I’ve learned much,’ Neferata said. ‘I’ve learned that thrones are like horses. They always throw their rider at the first sign of weakness.’ She reached up and pressed two fingers to Abhorash’s sword and pushed it aside. ‘I’ve learned that it is far better to be the one holding the reins than riding the horse.’

‘I thought you were a queen,’ Ushoran spat her words back at her.

‘I am, but not all queens sit on thrones,’ she said. She nodded to Abhorash, who stepped back. ‘You’ve given Abhorash a position within your new Lahmia, Ushoran. So why not do the same for me?’

‘You?’ Ushoran said, incredulously. Even Abhorash looked taken aback.

‘You need me, Ushoran,’ she said. ‘You know nothing of ruling a kingdom, nothing of statecraft or diplomacy. If you would be more than a petty warlord squatting in a tomb of stone, you will require someone with… finesse,’ she said.

‘I have more than enough advisors,’ Ushoran said suspiciously. She could see the wheels turning in his mind.

‘Yes, but what you do not have is a Lady of Masks,’ Neferata said, her foot on the first step of the dais. ‘Someone to shape your policy and be the dark left hand of this… paradise you have made.’

‘Strezyk serves me admirably in that capacity,’ Ushoran said slowly, gesturing to Strezyk. The vampire had got to his feet and reclaimed his mace. His face was flushed purple and his fangs jutted from his mouth like tusks. He sweated rage. Neferata glanced at him dismissively.

‘Strezyk is a fool. He insulted the dwarf and nearly cost you a potential ally. He allowed me to get within a hair’s breadth of you. He is foolish and vain and stupid, Ushoran. That is why you picked him. You never could stomach subordinates who were smarter than you.’

‘And you could?’ Ushoran said, glowering.

‘I chose you, didn’t I?’ she said smoothly. The flattery did not go unnoticed. Ushoran stiffened, his eyes alight with speculation. She could almost hear the thoughts rattling through his head: Can I trust her? Is this some gambit? Why? Why?

‘I am tired of the wilderness, Ushoran. I would rule again, even if it is at your side,’ she said, bowing her head. ‘Make me your Lady of Mysteries, if Masks are no longer to your liking.’

Ushoran laughed. The sound started as a low purr that burst out as a rumbling growl. ‘Strezyk might have something to say about that, eh, Strezyk?’

Strezyk’s mace caught her in the hip. Bone crunched and she nearly fell. Abhorash cried out, but Ushoran lunged to his feet and grabbed him. Neferata snapped upright and slapped Strezyk off his feet. The Strigoi slid across the stone floor and scattered nobles who hopped awkwardly aside. He struck a column and lay for a moment, panting. Neferata tested her hip and then faced him, her features lit with a predatory fury.

Strezyk rose, mace in hand, his own face twisting into something bestial. With a growl, he charged forwards, his weapon clasped in both hands, its head trailing behind him. Neferata lunged to meet him. She slid, ducking under his wild swing. Her claws dug into his belly, releasing a spray of sour black fluid. He screamed and gave her a glancing blow on the side of her head. Stunned, she awkwardly dodged his next blow.

His mace thudded down again, cracking stone. Strezyk was strong and fast, like all vampires. But as she had noted with Vorag, he had no idea of his true potential. He saw power only in terms of his human frame. Neferata had evolved beyond such preconceptions.

She had been the first of them. And she was stronger than any pale shadow that had come after. The mace dropped towards her head again and she caught it, her fingers squeezing the stone head so hard it cracked.

Caught up as he was in a berserk fury, he jerked at the weapon and kicked at her belly, trying to dislodge her. She slapped a hand to his leg and swung him into the air, hurling him into the dais hard enough to shatter one of the steps. Strezyk rose with a screech, his head flattening and expanding as hair burst from his pores and his clothes tore. Humps of muscle rippled across his widening frame and the mace looked like a toy in his bulging claw as he came at her again, howling.

She sprang past him, her claws leaving red trails across his hide. He spun, but she was faster. Like a cyclone of teeth and claws, she leapt and circled him, cutting him to pieces bit by bit. Soon he was gasping and the floor of the hall was slick with his blood. His fangs gnashed and he stumbled. In contrast, Neferata felt nothing – neither exhaustion nor even the slightest hint of fatigue. She circled him like some great cat of the veldt waiting for its chosen prey to give in, lie down, and accept death.

No vampire, even one as pathetic as Strezyk, would do that, of course. Persistence was built into them. When the last living breath fled, a will to persist like that possessed by no mortal creature filled them in its place. They could not surrender to death, not willingly.

Neferata stopped. Strezyk’s eyes had gone half-mad and feral and the grave-stink rolled off him in waves. There was something tainted in Ushoran’s blood, some feral weakness it seemed, an inclination to the bestial.

‘Come then,’ she purred, crooking a finger, ‘one last time, Strezyk.’

The mace looped out, and her body became as mist, swirling and coiling up his arm as he gaped in shock. The mist seeped into his flattened, triangular nose and open fang-filled mouth and red eyes and hair-choked pores. Strezyk dropped his weapon and clawed at himself as he staggered back. He opened great canyons in his own flesh, trying to dig her out, but to no avail. Strange bulges began to form on his body, like flowers seeking the sun, and he groaned. His tongue and eyes protruded grotesquely as his body began to shake. He made a strangled sound and then gave an agonised scream as he abruptly burst in a shower of gore. Men and women screamed and there was a stampede to the doors as the ruin of Strezyk tottered a few steps and fell at the foot of the dais.

Silence fell on the hall as Neferata stepped out of the ruins of the former major-domo, picking her way delicately over the lumps of quivering meat and bone that littered the steps. Blood drenched her, turning her pale skin the colour of rust. She gazed up at Ushoran and licked her lips. She held his gaze for a moment. Then she dropped to one knee, spread her arms and bowed her head.

‘My king,’ she said, ‘how may I serve you?’