Текст книги "Neferata"

Автор книги: Josh Reynolds

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

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 up 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.

The ghouls swept about her, chittering and whining, their filthy claws timidly touching the train of her robes as she stalked to the doors of the temple. The human servants of the cult had responded as well, their black armour and robes making them look like shadows.

‘What are you doing, Neferata?’ Naaima said, rushing to keep up with her. ‘We can fix this. We do not have to throw away a decade of careful planning for Khaled’s stupidity.’

Neferata said nothing, her face like stone. Her patience was a veil, as much a mask as the human seeming she wore. In truth, Khaled had given her an excuse to indulge the bloodthirst that had been building deep within her.

She flung open the temple doors to meet her would-be assassins. But rather than fear and steel, what she saw was something black.

It swallowed the horizon and reached for the stars, as if to strangle them. Flickering shadow-tendrils, spreading up-up-UP into the sky from some place far away, but too close for comfort. Neferata staggered, clutching at herself. Pain-nails were hammered into her head, burning her thoughts. She howled again, and staggered, clutching at her head.

COME.

COME TO ME.

‘No!’ Neferata screamed. It was Nagash. Nagash’s voice, inundating her thoughts as slimy water slipped through unseen cracks.

MINE. YOU ARE MINE.

COME.

The horizon screamed with her, and the earth itself seemed to heave in terror. Alarms were ringing throughout the city.

The sky was shot through with green cracks and she could feel the dead in the burying grounds stirring in their shrouds. Blood burst from her nose and ears and eyes, coating her face. The others suffered similarly, and the ghouls set up a wail as they stared gape-jawed at the sky. Tormented spectres hurtled through the air like leaves caught in a wind.

It was as if something were calling all of the dead of the world north. Neferata’s flesh writhed on her bones, as if it wanted to give in to the call. She took a step and then another.

‘There! There is the witch causing this!’ a voice bellowed. Neferata tried to focus through the blood. Al-Khattab galloped towards her, his impressively moustachioed face split in a self-righteous snarl. He swung up a sword. Soldiers followed, carrying weapons and torches. ‘Burn them out! Burn this nest of abomination to the stones!’ he roared.

Maddened and terrified of something that only she could hear, Neferata screamed and sprang to meet them, teeth and claws bared. With a howl, the ghouls followed their queen into battle…

The Worlds Edge Mountains

(–450 Imperial Reckoning)

The screams of wyverns and the bellicose roars of giants and trolls mingled with the general cacophony of the massed horde as it moved like a wave through the narrow valleys of the mountains. The orcs moved at a steady trot, not from organisation, but from simple eagerness. They were drawn to battle. Some wore armour scavenged from the dead, while others wore headdresses of bone and scalloping sapphire tattoos. They scrambled through the low river valley, tumbling trees and setting up a cloud of dust that blocked out the dull light of the mid-winter sun.

‘Wazzakaz is efficient. It only took him ten years to beat the horde into some semblance of shape,’ Rasha said, crouched low on the slope that overlooked the river of green winding its way through the valley. ‘The dwarfs look as if they intend to meet them at the other end of the valley, where it starts to rise.’

‘They’re trying to lead them as far from the Silver Pinnacle as possible. A horde that size could lay a siege for years, if not decades, and once it got in, they’d be impossible to root out fully,’ Neferata said, lying near her handmaiden. Orcs were like mould that way. They always came back when you least expected it, and ruined the grain in the process.

Her forces had found that out, almost to their cost, over the past few months. She had accompanied Vorag into the field as she had promised Ushoran, and it had been as frustrating as she had feared. They had wiped out the stragglers, the outcast tribal bands and the wolf-riders who scavenged from the Waaagh!’s leavings, but it seemed that the Waaagh!’s progress left almost as many greenskins in its wake as it added to its strength. Water splashing in a bowl indeed, even as she had said to Naaima.

The question now was, were the hands she had chosen to hold that bowl strong enough and quick enough to do as she required? Impatience thrummed through her momentarily. Part of her longed to be back in Mourkain, but it was too dangerous now.

Though W’soran had never given her an indication that he knew that she knew about the crown of Mourkain, she would have been foolish to assume otherwise. In the decades since she had pulled the secret out of Morath, the shadow-war between her agents and those of W’soran had escalated. Mourkain was simmering with discontent, and the conflict between them was only adding fuel to the fire. Thus, to keep the pot bubbling, but not yet wanting it to boil over, she had left. W’soran would lower his guard, and then she would know why he and Ushoran were so desperate to get their claws on Kadon’s crown.

The soft scrape of twine on wood brought Neferata instantly alert. She cut her eyes towards Rasha, who jerked her chin and blinked three times. Neferata exhaled and rose slowly into a sitting position. ‘You may as well come out,’ she said. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’

‘Have you then?’ a gruff voice replied. ‘Well, isn’t that just dandy?’ A broad shape moved out of the rocks. The dwarf wore a leather coat over a suit of blackened mail, and had a crossbow pointed in a general fashion at Neferata. A broad-brimmed floppy trader’s hat cast the dwarf’s face into shadow, and his beard was threaded through with orc tusks and rat skulls. ‘And why might that be, manling? Want to pick our bones clean after the urk are done with us? Going to root through our gruntaz, hmmm?’

‘Hardly,’ Neferata said. ‘We’ve come to offer aid.’

‘Oh, have you now? Isn’t that a blessed event?’ the dwarf replied caustically. ‘Stop moving or I’ll pin your pretty ears to your skull.’ This last was directed at Rasha, whose hand crept towards her sword. ‘D’you take me for a wazzok, is that it?’

‘You ask a lot of questions for one who sounds so certain,’ Neferata said mildly. ‘I assume that Thane Razek Silverfoot is in charge of your expedition?’

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed. The crossbow rose a few inches. ‘And if he is?’

‘He’ll want to see me.’

‘Will he now?’ the dwarf said. He gave a thin whistle, and several more dwarfs, all dressed in dark clothing and armour, rose from their hiding places, all carrying crossbows. Neferata blinked, impressed. She hadn’t even smelled them. ‘Well then, rinn, let’s see about that, shall we?’ The dwarf jerked his crossbow and Neferata and Rasha were surrounded by the other dwarfs. The whole group began to climb the slope.

They made good progress, despite having to stop when the shadow of a wyvern skidded across the rocks nearby. Luckily, orcs weren’t the most observant of creatures, and the outriders were more concerned with reaching the battle than with securing the horde’s flanks.

The aperture was well hidden. It took Neferata, with all her superior senses, three tries to spot it, and only then because she caught the steady thrum of dwarf heartbeats as the stone that blocked the opening was rolled aside. She and Rasha were led into the darkness of the steeply angled tunnel beyond. The entirety of the slope had apparently been honeycombed with tunnels that went off in seemingly random directions.

There were a number of dwarfs in evidence; dozens, in fact. Not quite a fighting force, but more than just observers, judging by the weapons they carried. Many of them wore the aprons and padded clothing she had come to associate with the engineers’ guild. Razek had had several members of that secretive organisation amongst his coterie in Mourkain.

‘It’s an und — a watch-post, you’d call it,’ a familiar voice said. Neferata turned. Razek looked little different from the last time Neferata had seen him. A new scar decorated the side of his face, descending from his scalp line, down through his eye and disappearing into his beard. But he was the same bulky, tough-looking creature she remembered. He sat at a round stone table, his hands flat on its surface. His expression changed from curiosity to something more alert as he examined her. ‘I didn’t realise manlings lived so long, Neferata.’

‘My folk are long-lived. We are well-made, as your people might say,’ Neferata said.

‘Perhaps you are at that. It’s been some time since we shared a drink,’ Razek said, fluffing his beard. He glanced at one of his warriors. ‘Beer,’ he said. The warrior hurried off with an alacrity that Neferata envied. If only her own servants were that quick to obey.

‘I assumed you got tired of being shown up,’ Neferata said, turning to examine the central room of the outpost. It was barren of ornamentation, as befitting a dwarf outpost. The rough stone walls curved in a fashion that Neferata knew no human artisan could accomplish, and the whole of the outpost put her in mind of an overlarge animal den. There were other tunnels splitting off from the main chamber, leading to other hidden apertures, perhaps. Racks of weapons were mounted on the walls, including a few whose design and purpose escaped her completely. ‘I did out-drink you, after all.’ She looked at Razek.

Razek grunted. ‘Only because I took it easy on you,’ he said. ‘Why are you here? This is of no concern to Strigos.’

Dwarfs could be touchy about matters of honour. They weren’t a folk to accept aid gladly, or even at all. Neferata knew that she had to tread carefully in the next few minutes. ‘I come to offer aid to our allies,’ she said formally. ‘We humbly ask that you accept what small help we can give to the throng of Karaz Bryn.’

Razek scratched his chin. ‘And what form does that aid take? Surely it’s not just you two…’

Neferata made a face. ‘And if it was?’ she said, in mock anger. ‘Am I of no consequence, then? Is my ability in question?’ Dwarfs respected one who was quick to defend their honour. In this case, it was more for the benefit of the other dwarfs in the outpost than for Razek, who was cunning enough to recognise her ploy for what it was. It was that same cunning which had necessitated the ending of their association, so many years ago. She pressed on. ‘My forces wait in the reaches to the east, and our allies to the west and the south.’

‘Allies, is it?’ Razek said. He looked at the dwarf who had brought Neferata in. ‘Ratcatcher, feel free to chime in, eh?’

Ratcatcher grunted and gnawed on one of his plaits. ‘Aye, there are manlings massing in those regions right enough. But they’re tribesmen – barely a step above the orcs themselves. We figured they were just preparing to defend themselves against the orcs, same as we are.’ He looked at Neferata with newfound respect. ‘If she’s got them working together, they could punch the urk right in the belly.’

Razek looked back at her. ‘And how’d you do that, then?’ he demanded.

She shrugged. ‘I have my ways.’

‘You promised them weapons,’ Razek said grimly. Neferata blinked. Momentarily nonplussed, she studied Razek and said nothing. He glared at her. ‘Dwarf weapons, Neferata, sold in good faith to our allies.’ His emphasis on the last two words was tinged with bitterness. What did he know, she wondered? Obviously her people had not been as efficient at ferreting out Razek’s spies as she had assumed, but that was a problem for another time. Right now, she had to convince him to work with her.

‘And paid for with our gold,’ Neferata said softly. It was a calculated insult. Dwarfs lived by the law of debts, and to remind a dwarf of that was, Neferata had come to learn, the equivalent of questioning his competency. The bitter odour of dwarf anger filled her nostrils as Razek continued to glare. ‘We do not play foul with you, thane of the Silver Pinnacle. But it is not your remit to tell us whom we may do business with,’ she said.

Razek held her eyes. It was impossible to tell what was going on behind his stony gaze and Neferata didn’t even bother to try. Finally, Razek gave a snort. ‘You know they’ll take those weapons and stick them right up the Strigoi’s fundament, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but not any time soon,’ she said. ‘The orcs are here now.’ Razek grunted, though whether in agreement or otherwise, she couldn’t say.

‘We don’t need them,’ Ratcatcher said, looking at her contemptuously. ‘Our warriors would only be hampered by the presence of manlings.’

‘True enough,’ Neferata said, throwing off her cloak and taking a seat at the stone table. She gestured. ‘Then, this isn’t about “need” but about debts owed, isn’t that correct, Razek?’ She leaned forwards. ‘Have we not been good allies, Razek? We have helped you, and you have helped us, but is it not meet that allies shed blood as well as gold and beer?’

Razek raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you saying we owe you a debt?’ he said slowly. Then, ‘Or perhaps it’s the other way around?’

‘Neither,’ Neferata said. ‘Or maybe it is both.’ She made a fist. ‘We would show you how much we value the friendship of Karaz Bryn, Razek.’

‘We don’t need your blood, woman,’ Razek said dismissively. ‘Manlings die too easily for it to be worth much.’

‘Strigoi die harder than most,’ Neferata said. She stood and drew her sword with a flourish. The dwarfs reacted much as she expected, some drawing weapons, others racing to the wall where crossbows and other deadly tools waited. Razek, however, didn’t move so much as a muscle. ‘Part of that is due to the benefits of our alliance,’ she said, ignoring the startled dwarfs and laying the sword down on the table between them, its hilt towards Razek. ‘Good dwarf iron,’ she said. ‘It is wielded by the hands of men.’

Razek’s hand settled on the hilt and he lifted the blade as if it were a toy. He examined it with a critical eye and then set it back down. ‘And what is that to us?’

‘Progress,’ Neferata said. ‘The Silver Pinnacle is the wheel and we but the spokes. Together, we can move mountains.’

Some of the dwarfs muttered at that. Progress was a dirty word to some dawi. Change, that inevitable taskmaster, was their enemy as much as the orcs. Razek’s expression remained the same. Then, abruptly, he leaned forwards. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

The discussion went on for hours. Others dwarfs joined in, mostly to disagree with her in Khazalid, likely assuming she wouldn’t understand. For the purposes of peace, she pretended that such was the case. It had taken her a decade to even gain a working knowledge of the language and two more to become fluent. It might take her another three to learn the strange, soft subtleties of the dwarf tongue. But she knew it well enough to know when she was being insulted.

The one called Ratcatcher was the most vociferous in that regard. The ranger had little love for humans, it seemed. Razek nodded brusquely at times, his eyes never leaving Neferata. When she spoke, he listened, but only grunted in reply.