Текст книги "Neferata"

Автор книги: Josh Reynolds

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‘Sound the drums,’ Neferata shouted, her voice carrying across the slope. ‘Form up the dragon’s scales!’ In answer to her cry, the war-drums sounded, bone striking stretched skin in a deep, thudding rhythm. A thousand heavy bronze and wood shields, each the size of the warrior wielding them, were slammed down onto the hard-packed soil of the slope. The spikes that lined the bottom of each shield bit into the earth and anchored the barrier even as the shield-wielders crouched low at the barked order of the ajal in command, bracing the shields with their bodies. The ajal roared out another command and the second line of men stepped forwards, extending the pitch-hardened wooden stakes they held over the top of the shields. The heads of the stakes were equipped with bronze cross-pieces, to prevent the surprisingly durable orcs from pulling themselves down the length of the spear. The Strigoi had learned over the decades that the best way to handle the urka was from a distance. Pin them and butcher them at leisure.

The drums continued to thunder dully as the Strigoi battle-line settled into the position they would hold for the entirety of the battle to come. There would be no retreat. ‘Curious strategy,’ Vorag grunted, eyeing the line. He was already mounted and his frame trembled with eagerness.

‘Cathay is a curious place,’ Neferata replied. Drilling the rambunctious Strigoi in Cathayan military manoeuvres had been a battle in and of itself – one she had only accomplished by pricking Abhorash’s vanity. She needed soldiers, not warriors. He had grasped the tactics and strategies of the armies of the east and adapted them to the Strigoi’s more brutal methods of warfare with instinctive ease, and she suspected that Abhorash had spent some time in Cathay, though he never admitted to such.

Indeed, Abhorash rarely spoke to her at all. He kept to his men, training his armoured riders in the arts of the Arabyan Kontoi and the Khazag riders of the eastern steppes, crafting an elite core for Ushoran’s growing army. She wasn’t offended. Far from it, in fact; the further Abhorash stayed away from her, the better. She knew the others felt the same way, especially W’soran. Abhorash’s honour was an anchor around all of their necks. It weighed them down and reminded them of what they had once had, and what they would never have.

‘The orcs are a flood, Timagal Vorag,’ she continued. ‘We must let them bleed themselves on our rocks rather than attempt to match them, savagery for savagery.’

‘As long as I get a taste of that blood,’ Vorag growled.

‘Have no fear in that regard,’ she said. Neferata swept her sword out, and the drums thudded. The third rank stepped forwards, raising their bows. The Strigoi bows were stubby recurved things, meant to be fired from horseback at the gallop. Crafted from wood, horn and sinew and bound together with animal glue, they possessed a startling punch for their size. She jabbed the air and the archers reared back, aiming upwards.

‘You remember the plan?’ she said, not looking at Vorag.

‘Of course,’ he grunted. ‘Have no fear, Neferata. The Bloodytooth will not fail you.’ He snapped his reins and wheeled his horse about. In moments, Vorag’s riders began moving back around the hill, secreting themselves in the thick trees. Neferata raised her sword, letting the iron catch the moonlight.

The valley had become a vast, seething ocean of green beneath the moon. There were thousands of them, like ants fleeing an ant hill. Larger shapes moved through the tide, carried on savage currents – giants and trolls and howling, shrieking crimson things that were more fungus than beast.

Neferata’s sword dropped. Bows twanged and a solid cloud of arrows momentarily blotted out the moon. The horde below heaved like a wounded animal biting its flank.

‘That got their attention,’ Stregga said.

‘And now we need to keep it,’ Neferata said, raising her sword again. Two more volleys followed the first, and the mass of orcs disintegrated, a huge wave breaking off from the main body to crash towards the slope where the Strigoi waited. Neferata hissed. There were more of them than she had thought. She cast a calculating eye over the battle-line. The Strigoi were orc-fighters without peer, save for perhaps the dwarfs, but even they could be overwhelmed.

‘Sanzak, get them ready,’ Neferata said. The ajal in charge of the closest section of the line nodded; his eyes were red in the gloom. He was one of Vorag’s get and bore his master’s brute stamp upon his features. He began snarling out orders as the first line of Strigoi readied themselves, and his commands were echoed up and down the line by his fellow ajals. The men stank of nervousness and battle-lust. Neferata waited just behind the line. She signalled for another volley.

Orcs fell even as they ascended the slope, but the creatures pressed forwards. Their green flesh daubed with savage azure tattoos and hideous war-whoops on their lips, the orcs were a terrifying sight. They struggled up the hill hour after hour in a wave of grunting, howling bodies, each one striving to be the first to reach the crest of the hill where the Strigoi waited for them. The stakes were heavy with brackish orc blood and the men wielding them were exhausted. Replacements scrambled into position beneath the shields, to give their wielders a moment to rest.

Momentum alone would have carried the orcs up and over eventually, despite the rain of arrows that cut through their ranks time and again, and that same momentum would carry them over the line of spearmen. They were stubborn creatures, fond of battle and inured to setback.

The only hope in thwarting an orc charge was, therefore, to surprise them.

‘We’re running low on arrows,’ Sanzak called out.

‘Not surprising,’ Stregga muttered. ‘If we can’t keep them off the line, they’ll roll right over us.’

‘I know. Now it’s our turn,’ Neferata said, looking at Layla. The girl bared her fangs and drew her sword with a flourish. Without another word, Neferata charged down the slope and leapt into the air, her sword flashing out. An orc’s howl was cut short as her blade separated its head from its shoulders. As she landed, she gutted a second, nose wrinkling at the stench of its spilling innards. Crude stone weapons shattered as they struck against the armour she wore. Spinning, she bisected another of the brutes.

Neferata spun, and orcs died. Nearby, Stregga copied her mistress’s action and bounded down the slope, unleashing months of repressed savagery on the hapless greenskins. The vampire shrieked wordlessly as her sword licked out, lopping off limbs and heads with abandon.

Layla was, if anything, even more vicious than the other vampire. Her flesh rippled, sprouting a coat of thick, dark hair, and her skull elongated into something more vulpine than human as she crashed into the orcs, singing a Strigoi death-song. Her claws raked out, gutting a goblin even as she cut an orc in two at the waist with her blade.

Several of the ajal followed suit, the Strigoi bounding out of the shield-line with red-eyed eagerness. They fought like animals, wielding massive hammers and swords that pulped bone and meat alike. All in all, a dozen vampires had crashed into the orcs and within moments they were wading through corpses and blood in a savage frenzy.

But savage as it was, it wasn’t enough. Neither did it need to be. Neferata raised her sword as high as she could, and the drums set to with a ferocity that even outdid that of the orcs. Moments later, with a howling cry, Vorag’s riders broke from cover and charged. The horses sprang across the slope speedily, their hooves setting the ground to trembling.

‘Back,’ Neferata shouted. ‘Fall back!’ The vampires broke away from the fighting and scrambled back towards the line of shields as the horsemen rode into the fray. The riders howled and roared, and the bows in their hands peppered the orc flank raggedly. Orcs fell, struck by dozens of arrows. Other riders, led by Vorag, carried heavy-bladed spears which dipped and punctured green flesh. But the Strigoi had other tricks than just these.

On each horse’s haunch was a tough fibre net. At Vorag’s bellowed command, his men slashed the nets and let what they contained tumble in their mounts’ wakes. Soon, each horse was dragging a web of chains and thick ropes ending in spiked bars, hooks and blades which clattered loudly as the horsemen neared the orcs.

As Vorag’s riders struck the flank, they did not slow. Instead, they urged their horses to greater speed and rode on, leaving a path of carnage in their wake. The blades and bars jumped and swung as the horses galloped and smashed into the orcs, knocking them off their feet or shredding them where they stood. A full two hundred riders struck the orc flank like a wedge of death and the orcs were ripped apart with almost clinical brutality, sectioned off from the main horde and dissected.

True to form, most of the orcs momentarily retreated from the slope as they sought to come to grips with the horsemen. Neferata could almost admire how quickly the creatures adapted to changing situations. She lazily blocked a spear-thrust from one of the remaining brutes and looked around. There were only a few dozen of the creatures close to the Strigoi lines. The rest were heading back for Vorag’s riders with eager roars and bellows. The spear-wielding orc lunged for her again and she chopped her sword down, splitting its skull.

Stregga snarled as Vorag’s horse went down with a burst skull, courtesy of a lucky blow. The Strigoi hit the ground and rolled to his feet in a cloud of dust, even as an orc mounted on a snorting boar charged towards him, spear levelled. Vorag deftly avoided the spear and swept his arms wide as the beast rushed towards him. He caught the boar around its neck and veins bulged black in his pale flesh as he wrenched the beast up in mid-gallop and flung it over his shoulder, snapping its spine in the process. The boar fell, spilling its rider, and Vorag pounced, jaws agape.

The battle lost cohesion moments later, devolving into a swirling melee. The signal drums thundered, calling for the horsemen to retreat as they’d planned, but to no avail. Their blood was up and it was all the ajals on the slope could do to keep the ranks from charging into the fray.

Neferata swung the flat of her blade out, striking the shield of one of the men, and snarled. ‘Back,’ she snapped. ‘Get back or lose your head! Get them in line!’ The men fell back in haste, resuming their positions, their faces white with fear as their vampire masters snarled and snapped at them.

Satisfied that order had been restored, Neferata scanned the melee. If they could find the creatures’ war-chief, they might be able to bring an end to the battle in one stroke. The former wasn’t difficult. Orcs were simple creatures, with simple desires. They wanted the biggest, loudest fight they could find, and they’d kill each other to get it. Right now, that fight was Vorag.

Neferata couldn’t help but admire the way the Strigoi fought. He lacked the precision of Abhorash or the sadism inherent in Ushoran’s tactics. Instead, Vorag fought like an animal unleashed. His size seemed to increase as he waded through the orcs that sought to pull him down. His body swelled hideously, his arms and shoulders bulging with muscle. He stabbed an orc through the head with a shattered spear and swept the body out, knocking another creature aside. His face wrinkled into a bestial grimace, his lips rolling back from needle-studded gums. Claws sprouted from his fingers and he ripped apart his enemies with wild abandon.

Pulling a squalling orc in half, Vorag threw back his head and howled. A moment later, a ground-rattling bellow echoed in reply and sent orcs scrambling as something massive thrust its way through the press that now surrounded Vorag. A saw-edged blade the length of Neferata’s leg smashed down, digging a trench in the rock of the slope and forcing Vorag to skip backwards. The orc boss was bigger than three men and its red, piggy eyes were bright with feral bloodlust. It bellowed again as its eyes fastened on Vorag. The big blade snapped out, and he sank down and it sliced the air above his head. Vorag roared and flung himself on the orc.

Neferata couldn’t identify the beast; there were dozens of bosses among the Waaagh! each with their own tribes. This one was bigger than most, however. ‘Can he handle it?’ she said, looking at Stregga. Stregga didn’t reply. She watched the fight, her teeth bared and her eyes wide as she drank it in. Neferata growled and slapped her. ‘Stregga! Can he win?’

Stregga shook her head. ‘I–I don’t know,’ she grunted. Moments later, Vorag was knocked to the ground by a sweep of the orc’s arm. The creature roared and raised its blade over the stunned vampire.

Neferata cursed. If Vorag lost his head here, her plans would be endangered. It might take centuries to groom another capable of heading a revolt. Centuries she might not have. Hurry, Neferata! The stars spin faster and faster as dust is stirred by hollow winds. You will be a queen again and you will rule over silent, perfect cities, but only if you hurry, the voice purred at the back of her head. Annoyed, she shook it aside. A moment later she was moving, driving her own sword into the orc’s unarmoured torso.

It howled in agony. A green hand fastened on her head as she tried to pull her blade loose and she was smashed down against the slope. Bone cracked and splintered and blood burst from between her lips in an exhalation of agony. Stregga was there a moment later, hewing through the orc’s arm. The orc reared back, squalling as Layla leapt upon its back and clawed at its eyes.

Neferata pulled herself to her feet, grimacing in pain as her wounds re-knit. She lunged upwards, her teeth snapping together in the meat of the beast’s throat. With a jerk of her head, she tore its throat out. It toppled backwards, and she rode it down, crouching on it. Gagging, she spat out the foul-tasting lump of meat and hissed at the orcs who had stopped to watch the fight. Stregga joined her, snarling like a hungry tigress.

Clutching her wounds, Neferata shrieked. The sound of it echoed across the slope, bouncing from tree to rock. One by one, slowly at first, then faster and faster, the orc advance became a retreat. The green wave reversed itself and began to wash downhill, back into the valley below. The Strigoi sent a farewell of arrows to keep the orcs moving in the right direction.

The slaughter lasted for what seemed like hours and the darkness began to slip into the purple of dawn as it ended. Wazzakaz’s horde had been cut into thirds and reduced from a juggernaut to something substantially less intimidating. The slope was carpeted in the bodies of slain orcs.

‘Beautiful,’ Vorag said, trotting towards them. The big vampire grinned widely and leered at Stregga, looking none the worse for wear despite the blood that coated him head to toe. ‘I couldn’t have done it better myself!’

‘No, you couldn’t have,’ Stregga said, wiping her mouth.

Neferata spat – she could still taste the bitter tang of the orc’s blood. ‘Did you send riders?’ she said. Her wounds had healed, though the ghost-ache of bones broken earlier lingered.

‘Yes and the stunted ones are ready. We should be able to – there!’ Vorag gestured. The brass-banded dragon-horns of the dwarfs harrowed the frosty dawn air from their position far down in the valley. The orcs no longer had the numbers to beat the throng; they would be annihilated. Vorag rubbed his hands together. ‘Should I take my riders down there, just in case?’ he asked eagerly.

‘No,’ Neferata said. ‘I want you to stay put. We’ll need you and your riders fresh for the morrow.’

‘Why, what’s tomorrow?’

‘The dwarfs don’t pursue beaten foes. The orcs will flee. We need to grind them up and ensure that it takes generations for them to ever prove a threat again.’ Neferata kicked a dead orc and glared down into its slack features. ‘It may take days or months, but we need them beaten.’

‘But—’ Vorag began. Neferata looked at him. The other vampire grimaced and looked away, unwilling to match her gaze. ‘Fine,’ he grunted. ‘What now?’

‘We wait,’ Neferata said. ‘We let the dwarfs wet their axes as we promised. We’ll need to send a rider to Ushoran, to let him know how we’ve fared here.’ She smiled slightly at the look on Vorag’s face. ‘He will become suspicious, otherwise. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?’ Her smile grew wider and she added, ‘At least, not until it’s too late.’

ELEVEN

The City of Bel Aliad

(–1149 Imperial Reckoning)

The dead fought in silence, their weapons rising and falling with monotonous ferocity. They hacked their way through the living warriors of Bel Aliad without slowing or stopping, and those that fell were replaced by their victims in time.

Arkhan the Black watched it all from the roof of the temple of the ghoul-god, and found it good. Or so Neferata assumed. The withered liche-thing barely resembled the man she had once known and… What? She pushed the thought aside. That was in the dim past and this was the present and here and now, Arkhan endangered everything she had built.

‘You can’t do this,’ she said, approaching him.

‘Neferata,’ Arkhan said in his hollow voice. ‘You still live.’

‘You sound disappointed.’

‘No,’ Arkhan said. Bones rustled as he turned, his glowing gaze sweeping over her without apparent emotion. ‘Does this city hold some special place in your heart?’

‘No,’ Neferata said. Her armour hung from her body in ragged scraps; it had been battered and torn by Arkhan’s bodyguards as she had killed them. In the ruins of her once great temple, her followers battled his, even as her enemies battled the dead in the streets. It was a war on three fronts, fought by three armies. She raised the notched and dull khopesh she held and pointed it at him. ‘But it is mine nonetheless. You will not take it from me.’

‘Would you match your strength against mine?’ Arkhan said. ‘You ran from Nagash. Am I so much less fearsome?’

‘Infinitely,’ she said.

‘Nagash is dead,’ Arkhan said suddenly.

Neferata hesitated. ‘What?’

‘He is dead.’

‘Did you—’

Arkhan made a rasping, wheezing noise she took to be laughter. ‘No. And neither did your old friend W’soran.’ The glowing eyes dulled slightly. ‘It was Alcadizzar.’

Neferata closed her eyes, just for a moment. The pain was faint now, but it was there. She swallowed it down. ‘Is he…?’

‘I know not. Nor, in truth, do I care,’ Arkhan said. ‘Nagash is gone and I have been driven from Khemri. I need a new fortress, a new place to rebuild my strength before my opponents follow me.’

‘Your opponents – who were they? Nagash killed everyone!’ Neferata said. She knew even as she asked what the answer would be. She had known since that night where the sky turned green and the dead had grown restless in the burial vaults.

‘The Great Land is a land of the dead now. They rule it in the darkness even as they did beneath the sun.’ Arkhan used two fingers to push aside her blade. ‘The tombs of the mighty gape wide and the war-chariots of Settra rumble to war.’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Yes, he brought them back. All of them unto the first generation,’ Arkhan intoned. ‘And they are angry, Neferata. They curse my name even as they curse Nagash’s… and yours.’

‘What?’ Neferata said, shaken.

Arkhan lunged, swatting aside her sword and grabbing her wrist. He pulled her to him, his skull pressed close to her face. ‘They hate you. All of the dead of Lahmia hate you. They want to punish you and all your court for your crimes. And her voice is the loudest of all.’

‘Her?’

‘The little hawk,’ Arkhan whispered, and his words were like a knife sliding across her sensitive flesh. ‘Khalida of Lybaras hunts once more, Neferata, and she is coming even now across the sands of the Great Desert.’ He grabbed her chin. ‘And she is coming for you…’

The City of Mourkain

(–350 Imperial Reckoning)

They returned to Mourkain under cover of darkness.

Neferata rode through dark streets, and was reminded of times long past, and another city that held its breath by night. Rasha and Layla rode close behind her. Stregga, of course, had stayed with Vorag, who was in no hurry to return to Mourkain. Instead, he intended to visit the other frontier nobles. Men, like him, who were kept at arm’s length from the centres of power. Men who, like him, all had among their trains Neferata’s handmaidens, though most knew it not, thinking them mere concubines, or priestesses or slaves.

In contrast to how long it had taken to subvert the religions of Strigos, it had taken no time at all to take swift and decisive control of the burgeoning slave trade. Now, her followers controlled the flow of slaves from the west and the north and of the latter, those who met a certain set of requirements were culled and sent to Mourkain to receive Neferata’s blessings. As a result, her handmaidens numbered over a hundred these days, their numbers only exceeded by those of Ushoran’s get.

Sometimes she felt a faint sense of displeasure at the thought of employing so many in such a capacity. She had taken living creatures, women much like she had once been, and turned them from beings with their own destinies into playing pieces on a board whose parameters she was still, as yet, uncertain of. But those thoughts were few and far between. Mostly, she concerned herself with the humming strands of plot and counter-plot that stretched from her black brain. With the orcs broken, the trade routes had blossomed into full flower, bringing new blood from the west into the lands of the Strigoi. She had spent almost a century seeing to it, visiting the wildling tribes and those from farther west whose representatives had heard of Strigos and wished to see its power up close.

But rather than exploiting that strength, Neferata had instead undermined it. She had moved from tribe to tribe, spreading not the story of Mourkain’s majesty, but of its frailty. She had whispered of the decadence of its rulers, of the weakness of its armies, and of the great wealth which it had, but did not deserve.

She smiled slightly. The Draesca had wasted little time; the wildling tribes had already begun asserting their control of the rough country and taking what could charitably be called more than their fair share of the wealth from the trade routes. Too, the Draesca had begun to eye the Draka and the other large tribes askance. Ushoran was not the only would-be emperor in these mountains.

It would be war soon enough. A few years perhaps, maybe a decade, and by then the wild tribes would have become less wild and thus more dangerous to Strigos, which had already begun to stagnate in its superiority. She could almost smell the rot; she sniffed, tasting… ‘Blood,’ she said, suddenly alert.

‘The air is thick with it,’ Rasha murmured, riding just behind her.

Layla sniffed. ‘Why is it so quiet? What is going on?’

‘Halt!’

Iron-capped spear-butts thumped on the street as the armoured warriors moved into the open. They wore fur cloaks to protect themselves from the night’s chill, and their armour was chipped and black. ‘Curfew, strangers… Do you have a reason for being out tonight?’ one grunted.

‘Curfew, is it?’ Neferata said, pulling back her hood. The watchmen seemed to hiss collectively. They knew her face. There was no woman in Mourkain who looked like Neferata, though many aped her style. ‘On whose orders, I wonder?’

‘Hetman Ushoran, my lady,’ the watchman stuttered. ‘From sunset to sunrise, all citizens are to remain indoors.’

Neferata urged her horse closer. ‘Why?’ she said, holding the man’s eyes with her own. Rasha and Layla joined her.

‘Spies, my lady,’ Naaima said. Neferata looked up. Her handmaiden stood across from the watchmen. She had arrived silently. Or perhaps she had been waiting for them. ‘I am glad to see you back. We need no escort,’ Naaima added, touching one of the men on the arm. ‘Continue about your business and be assured that your superiors shall hear of your dedication.’ The man saluted gratefully and the whole lot slid around and past the mounted vampires with as much speed as the dignity of their office could allow. Neferata watched them go before turning back to her handmaiden.

‘I see events have occurred in my absence,’ she said.

‘Someone tried to kill Ushoran,’ Naaima said bluntly. ‘He’s blamed us. He has Anmar.’

‘What?’ Neferata snapped, jerking on her horse’s reins. The animal whinnied and lashed at the air with its hooves. ‘Explain yourself!’

‘His paranoia has become a force unto itself,’ Naaima said. She extended a hand and Neferata swung her up onto her horse. Naaima settled behind her, clutching her mistress. She answered Neferata’s next question before she had a chance to ask it. ‘It was not us.’

‘Good,’ Neferata said simply, urging her horse into motion. The others followed closely. Perhaps Khaled has learned from his blunders in Bel Aliad after all, she thought darkly. ‘Who was it, then? Was it W’soran?’

‘I don’t know. I suspect so. It doesn’t matter. He has her. He wanted to see you as soon as you arrived,’ Naaima said.

‘Where is Khaled? Did he have nothing to say about this?’ Neferata growled. Naaima didn’t answer immediately. Neferata tensed. She could sense her handmaiden’s disquiet. ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

‘Khaled is the one who took her,’ Naaima said harshly. ‘He and Ushoran’s guards intervened in a brawl between five of ours and a number of W’soran’s abominations.’

‘What happened?’

‘Four of ours are dead. Anmar was the only survivor. Those creatures… they tore them apart, right in the street. W’soran claims they were resisting his authority.’

‘His authority?’ Neferata spat incredulously. ‘That creature only has as much authority as I deem fit. Khaled as well. He forgets himself if he thinks to put himself at cross-purposes with me.’ Neferata cursed and urged her horse to greater speed. In his years in Ushoran’s bodyguard, the former Arabyan princeling had become too comfortable, she had known that. But it was that very thing which had likely endeared him to Ushoran. Was he merely playing the part she had assigned him? Or was he now truly Ushoran’s dog? It was a question she intended to get an answer to tonight. One of many questions, in fact, that the time had come to have answered.

Since she had learned about the crown of Mourkain, and Ushoran’s desire for it, a number of previously nonsensical elements had fallen into place. She sniffed the air, tasting the dull black skeins of W’soran’s magic. It had permeated the stones of Mourkain over the centuries, like ancient damp rising anew. It tasted different tonight.

Vorag had told her much of Ushoran’s coming, and how Kadon had ruled before then. How Kadon had worn a crown of black metal, but how Ushoran seemed to either disdain it, or have mislaid it. Or, perhaps, he had been denied it.

There were only a few reasons she could think of for Ushoran to give sanctuary to a treacherous serpent like W’soran, and one of those was to make use of the old monster’s knowledge, but why? Ushoran could simply have had another crown made. What was so important about this one?

At that thought, something vibrated through her, its ugly voice echoing eerily in her head. Come to me, Queen of the Dawn! Come, Beautiful Death! Run to me. Run to my embrace, it hissed, its words scraping across the underside of her thoughts like the coils of some great serpent. She could feel its intangible presence pulling at her as she rode.

The horses galloped through the streets towards the pyramid. She saw more guards, but none tried to bar their way. The city was bristling with them, and here and there among them, she saw the black robes of W’soran’s ghouls. Hurry, Queen of Lahmia! The stars spin faster and faster as dust is stirred by hollow winds. The dead howl in their cages of breathing meat! Hurry, the voice hissed in her ears. She bent her head, trying to ignore it. Her eyes found the dark shape of the pyramid and she heard a whisper of ghostly laughter. Naaima held her tighter.

‘You’re trembling,’ she murmured, low enough that others couldn’t hear.

Neferata controlled herself. The moon was fat and bloated in the black sky and it cast a yellow eye over the plaza in front of the pyramid. She tugged on the reins as they entered the plaza. More guards awaited them. Spears were lowered and warnings shouted, but Neferata ignored them, leaping from her horse and stalking towards the doors, the others hurrying after her. Her talons slid from her fingertips as the guards in front of the door held their ground.

‘Stand aside,’ a voice bellowed as the doors were pushed open from within. Khaled stepped through, shoving a guard viciously aside. ‘I said stand aside, fools!’ he roared. He met Neferata’s gaze as she swept towards him, not slowing. ‘My lady, let me expla—’

She didn’t let him finish. She snatched him up by his throat and lifted him over her head, her eyes blazing like coals. ‘Fool,’ she snarled. Her voice echoed across the plaza and she smelled the sudden surge of fear from the guards. Khaled gagged and tried to speak as her fingers tightened about his throat. Cartilage popped and bone crunched and Khaled jerked and flopped like a broken-backed snake. She flung him aside and spun to face Naaima and the others. ‘Come!’

She struck the doors with her palms, forcing them open with a thunderous boom which echoed throughout the pyramid. She stalked through the corridors, servants fleeing before her like chickens fleeing a leopardess. A duo of Strigoi moved to bar her way at the entrance to the throne room and she gazed at them with blank fury. ‘Move aside,’ she growled.

Both wore the heavy black armour of Ushoran’s guard, and both were familiar to her. Zandor bowed mockingly, one hand on his sword. ‘We must announce you, my lady,’ he said. ‘It is the custom.’

‘You might have forgotten, what with all that time spent among the barbarians,’ Gashnag added, glaring at her. Both Strigoi looked ready for a fight. They were no longer the parasitic courtiers they had been so long ago. Now they were warriors, or carried themselves as such. She wondered, in the moment before she hurled herself at them, whether Abhorash had had a hand in that.