Текст книги "Neferata"

Автор книги: Josh Reynolds

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‘Treachery,’ one of the Strigoi roared as he lunged for her.

‘It’s not treachery,’ Neferata said, backhanding the vampire with enough force to shatter the front of his skull. ‘It’s a mercy killing.’ But even as she said it, doubts rose fierce, stinging her. The crown seemed to reach for her as Ushoran thrashed, calling to her, crooning.

I will ride you through the gates of the world, it said, each word a dagger of pain. You will be queen, Neferata, queen of Lahmia, queen of Mourkain and queen of the world, if you but take me up. Throne and crown, Neferata… TAKE ME UP!

And Neferata, all at once, knew her answer. She spun, tearing herself away from the seductive voice, away from its promises of an eternity of powerful servitude, away from the dark fate laid out for her. She would be queen, but on her own terms.

‘Kill her,’ W’soran shrieked. ‘Rescue your king!’ Neferata turned at the necromancer’s howl and saw shapes heaving in the weak light of the braziers, casting mutated shadows across the stones. W’soran’s ghoul-creatures had entered the throne room on stealthy claws and now they loped towards her, slavering.

An arm, impossibly long, whipped towards her and the talons attached to the blunt fingers gouged the wall as she ducked and spun, plunging her sword into the hollow gut of the ghoul-thing. It screamed and staggered. Rasha and Layla were on it in the instant, hacking and stabbing at it.

Another of the beasts lunged, the bone spurs jutting from the ruptured flesh of its forearms scraping along the floor as it sought to snatch Neferata up. Recalling the strength such creatures possessed, Neferata leapt. Her feet touched its wrist and she bolted up the length of its arm. It reared back as she slid across its shoulders, weasel-quick. Taking her sword in two hands, she drove it through the back of the creature’s skull, and the tip emerged between its jaws.

It grunted, coughed and slumped. She yanked her sword free and dropped to the floor before it. Anmar and Naaima had a third beast down on its hands and knees. It groaned piteously and fell, tongue protruding and the fire in its eyes guttering out.

Neferata glimpsed W’soran fleeing the chamber and prepared to follow him when she caught sight of Anmar and saw her handmaiden’s eyes widen. Anmar screamed, ‘No!’

Neferata turned and gasped as a tearing agony ripped through her. Blood burst through her lips. She looked down at Khaled’s sword as it wriggled deeper into her belly. She grabbed the blade and looked at her Kontoi as he stared blankly at her. ‘What—’ she coughed.

‘Why didn’t you take it?’ he rasped, staring at her accusingly. ‘Why couldn’t you just take it?’

Neferata staggered back, pulling herself off the sword. She pulled the blade as she went, yanking it from Khaled’s hands. Around her, her handmaidens were battling Ushoran’s guards, but she couldn’t focus. The thwarted screams of the crown pounded on the surface of her mind, making it hard to think. She stumbled and turned, bringing the sword up. Ushoran… She had to kill him. He couldn’t be allowed to wield the power she had felt.

Ushoran had freed himself, however. He glared at her, hand pressed tight to his belly. But it wasn’t Ushoran, not entirely. Something else looked out from behind his eyes and it hated her now, because she had spurned it. Just as Khaled hated her, just as she had hated Alcadizzar. She saw the whole story of it in Ushoran’s eyes and she chuckled.

‘You were right,’ she said, grinning. ‘Spite. It was all for spite.’ Then she screamed as Khaled brought Razek’s axe down on her shoulder, slamming her to her knees. She dropped the sword and fell onto her face as her flesh burned. As she screamed, her handmaidens raced to her aid.

Ushoran raised his hand and said, in a voice that was not his own, ‘STOP.’

And then Neferata knew nothing more, as the darkness that had once been so welcoming crashed down on her like the blows of a spurned lover.

FOURTEEN

The City of Sartosa

(–1020 Imperial Reckoning)

Neferata moved gracefully across the coloured tiles of the plaza, her robes trailing behind her. Her servants strode just behind her, shading her from the sunlight with a silk curtain held aloft on poles. ‘The druchii can be bargained with,’ she said, stirring the air with her hand-fan. ‘Who will miss a few hundred fishermen, Abruzzi?’

‘Their families, I would assume, Lady Neferata,’ Abruzzi of Sartosa said. He was a stiff-necked, heavy-faced man, and he looked uncomfortable in his coarse robes of state. ‘I do not know how things are done in Cathay, but here, we do not like to surrender our own folk to beasts from across the sea.’

‘Nor do we,’ Neferata said, touching his arm. ‘But needs must, Abruzzi. Sartosa has no strength at present. The druchii control the seas where the Arabyans do not. We must change that. More, we must have the time to change that,’ she said. ‘What are a few innocents in comparison to an empire that controls the seas?’

‘You say it so prettily, my lady,’ Abruzzi grunted, eyeing her. ‘Are all women so cold-blooded in Cathay?’

‘Needs must, my lord,’ Neferata said again. She sighed and tapped her lips with her fan. ‘Then, there are… things that could be done.’

‘Such as?’ Abruzzi said, stopping. Neferata paused before replying. The palazzo was a monument to the alliance of form and function. The walled garden was open to the sky and water burbled in the aqueducts that ran along the top of the walls. There were thick, fleshy plants and brightly coloured flowers everywhere she looked, and caged song-birds sang sweetly.

She wondered whether Abruzzi could smell the effluvium of the dungeons beneath the garden, or whether the gruff former-soldier knew what strange nourishment her garden received. A few months after her arrival on a night of chaos and fire, Neferata had used what wealth she had managed to bring from Araby to set herself up as a noblewoman from Cathay in the heart of Sartosa’s wealthiest district. Now her daughters and sisters danced with merchant-princes and senators at moonlit galas and some had spread beyond, entering the lands to the west and the north.

Some few yet remained in Araby, lurking within harems and as the young brides of old merchants and noblemen. The news they sent her was invaluable in building her fortunes anew, and she could now predict the activities of the pirates of the gulf with a startling accuracy. She had increased the wealth of Abruzzi as well, among others.

‘There are… secrets, known to me, my lord,’ she said, feigning hesitance. ‘We could provide the raiders with their tribute without sacrificing a single Sartosan.’

Abruzzi hesitated. He looked at her, but did not ask the question she knew was foremost on his mind. For that she respected him. Only a fool asked the obvious question. ‘And if you do this… what?’ he said.

‘I would expect an appropriate compensation, commensurate with my standing,’ she said prettily.

Abruzzi was silent for a moment, looking at an orange and yellow blossom that nodded in the breeze. He touched the flower and sniffed it. ‘You have much aided the senate, my lady, in removing certain obstructions to the furtherance of our influence over the more – ah – short-sighted of our nobility.’

‘Best to leave such thankless tasks to an outsider, I have always thought,’ she said, fanning herself.

‘Hmm.’ Abruzzi looked at her. ‘Not a single Sartosan, you say? You can spare our people from the bellies of the black arks?’

‘Yes,’ Neferata said.

‘And your appropriate reward?’

‘A seat on the senate,’ she said. She raised a hand before he could protest. ‘Not for me. For a… protégé of mine. His wife has done me many services, and I would see her – and him – rewarded.’

Abruzzi grunted. ‘Easily done,’ he said.

‘Then we have an accord,’ Neferata said, smiling…

The Silver Pinnacle

(–326 Imperial Reckoning)

The snow fell with a silent fury across the mountain. Ice gripped Neferata’s hair, changing the once-lustrous mane into something resembling a nest of black snakes. Across her shoulders, the dark-furred cat stirred, its triangular, tufted ears twitching. Yellow eyes opened and a quiet chirp escaped its mouth. She stroked it with her free hand. She wore a heavy bearskin and the black, ornate armour of Ushoran’s honour-guard, and the cat nestled between the pauldrons. Neferata moved through the waist-high drifts slowly but steadily, the haft of Razek’s axe clenched tightly in her grip. His blood still stained the handle and hers stained the blade, but if there was some meaning in that, she had had little time or desire to contemplate it.

Instead, her eyes found the great stone dragon head that seemed to lunge down towards her through the storm of falling snow, from the heights of the peak. It was a large thing, and bore more than a passing resemblance to the craniums of the giant lizards she had seen in the Southlands. The artistry that had gone into the crafting of it boggled her mind; her people had been known far and wide for their craftsmanship, but even they had lacked the sheer attention to detail that the dragon head displayed. It seemed to have no purpose, jutting as it did from the tightly packed rocks. Her keen eyesight picked out distant outlines that were likely other, similar protrusions, encircling the apex of the peak in a crown of dragons. With difficulty, she pulled her eyes down to examine that which she had come for.

The great doors of Karaz Bryn rose over her, looming bulwarks of stone and ancient metal fashioned by the artisans of a dying race and controlled by mechanisms which mankind would still struggle to understand a thousand years hence. The doors were set into a massive archway that had been decorated with an intricate latticework of carvings that might have depicted anything from legends to episodes of historical significance. The doors themselves were decorated as well, with a profusion of glowering, stylised faces done in the sharp, blocky style preferred by dwarf artisans.

There was a faint glow to those faces and it was one she knew would be invisible to human eyes. Even she could only glimpse it dimly. There was some magic worked into the very substance of those doors, and it bothered her to look at them for too long.

Even with the snow, her preternatural eyesight picked out the tiny holes where dwarf eyes watched her approach. She could almost hear their thoughts. And she certainly heard the whine of crossbows being readied. She stopped. Her muscles tensed and readied to propel her in one direction or another. Her hold on the axe tightened. The dwarfs had quietly moved to a war-footing in the year since Ushoran had taken Nagash’s crown for his own. Trade had not quite dried up, but it was more guarded. Fewer merchants came bearing King Borri’s seal. Fewer dwarf-made goods found their way to Mourkain. Even as she had warned Ushoran, the trust of dwarfs was a fragile thing and easily cracked. And she was here now to shatter what remained utterly.

‘I request entrance to Karaz Bryn,’ she called out, her voice echoing. Minutes passed. Snow settled on her shoulders and head. The cat chirped querulously, and she murmured soft nothings to it.

‘Who are you to ask such?’ It was a rumble of sound, echoing from the peaks that rose around her and sending small avalanches of snow tumbling from on high. Speaking tubes and amplifying flutes gave it such an effect, she knew. Nonetheless, it was impressive.

The voice spoke in Khazalid. Neferata replied in kind. ‘One who has come to return something which was lost,’ she shouted, holding the axe up to where the unseen speaker could see the runic insignia stamped on the swell of the blade.

Silence fell. She waited. Minutes passed into hours. Hours passed into days. The cat leapt down from her shoulders and trotted into the darkness, returning some hours later, as if checking on her. She could not fault it for its anxiety. Neferata stood for a time, and then sank to her knees, kneeling in the snow, Razek’s axe in her lap. The cold was nothing to her, nor was the snow. It was nothing but an irritation. It was simply another indignity heaped upon the pile.

Ushoran had beaten her.

He had beaten her at her own game. Even as she had undermined him, he had worked a deeper game, breaking apart the bonds of loyalty that she thought unbreakable. She blinked a snowflake from her eye. No, he had not broken it. He had twisted it instead, turning devotion and desire into something altogether more vicious.

Pride was her curse. It always had been. She had too much of it, too much to see the obvious, at times. And she had paid for it again and again. That too she hadn’t seen. Not for what it was.

Ushoran had made her bow.

That thought rattled around in her head as she waited. She grimly forced it down, and then it would stubbornly shoot to the surface, taunting her like a splinter beneath her thumbnail.

He had forced her to her knees. He had forced her to swear allegiance to Strigos, to Mourkain, and to him. He had forced them all, though some had gone more willingly than others. Some of it was the crown’s influence. That was what Morath had tried to warn her of, what W’soran had been terrified of. Nagash’s night-black will made manifest. It was impossible to resist.

That was the only reason she still lived. It stuck in her craw, that thought, but even she wasn’t so blind as to pretend it was any other way. She had bowed and Ushoran had let her live. She was more useful alive than dead. Abhorash was still occupied in the south. Vorag and his rebels had fled towards the Sour Sea, and her former champion doggedly pursued them. W’soran too was gone, fleeing in the months after Ushoran’s ascension. Neferata suspected that the old monster was heading south as well, seeking Vorag’s protection. That was what she would have done in his place.

That was what she should have done.

Instead, she was here, kneeling in the snow. Her features rippled with a snarl. The cat stiffened and nuzzled her throat, purring softly. She stroked it and fought to control the beast within. There were too many eyes on her and too much depending on her. Her web was stretched thin and fragile and one false move, one moment’s surrender would render it so much ragged gossamer on the wind.

Ushoran’s power had increased, but not his wisdom. He had unleashed her to do his will, but his will only reached so far. The farther she had gone from Mourkain, the less it had pressed upon her. Now it was barely a feather’s weight. Now, she stood before a fortress, with an army, and Ushoran was in Mourkain, confident that he had her held tight in his claws. She closed her eyes.

She would not fail.

And she would not bow again.

On the third day, she heard the squeal of ancient machinery propelled to life and a loose curtain of snow fell as the great doors of the Silver Pinnacle began to swing open. Raising the axe, she strode forwards, the cat once more about her shoulders, the soft rumble of its purr damping the impatience she felt. The momentum of the doors had cleared a great swathe of snow from the path, leaving the ground bare and damp.

There was more magic awaiting her. It was worked into the welcoming sigils that marked the interior archway and as she passed beneath them, they caused Neferata’s flesh to prickle. The magic struck at the heart of what she was, circling and trapping her in a ring of unseen fire. It took an effort of will not to slap at her flesh and beat out the invisible flames. On her shoulders, the cat shuddered slightly.

She took hold of herself as the dwarfs came out to meet her, clad in light mail and some carrying high poles with flickering lanterns which threw mad shadows across the rocks and snow. She stood in their light, axe extended, her other hand resting on the pommel of the sword on her hip. Other dwarfs carried crossbows, their bolts aimed unerringly at her.

‘Zanguzaz,’ one spat. That meant blood-drinker. Apparently her agents hadn’t managed to hide certain facts from Razek as well as she had thought. It was another failure to set at Khaled’s door when this was done. She inclined her head.

‘What of it?’ she said, meeting their hostile gazes with a bland one. ‘I have come to return the ancestral weapon of the Silverfoot clan.’ She let them see the axe.

‘Where is the one who bore it?’ one of the dwarfs barked. She could tell by the decorations in his beard that he was in charge. He bore a resemblance to Razek – he was a brother, perhaps, or more likely a cousin. It mattered little to her. Sympathy was no longer a vice she could afford.

‘Dead,’ she said simply.

The dwarf closed his eyes, as if the thought pained him. When he opened them, the banal hostility of the watchman had been replaced by something else. For a moment, Neferata thought he might order his warriors to fire, but instead he simply turned and gestured sharply. ‘Come.’

The others fell in around her as she was led through the doors. Even as she passed through the archway the doors began to swing shut. She peered up into the gloom, spotting the ancient mechanisms responsible. Massive cogs and gears, the purpose of which escaped her, shifted and spun against one another, setting up a rumble that caused the stone floor beneath her feet to vibrate with a constant hum. She grunted. The cat stretched, yawning. It dropped to the floor silently and retreated into the gloom. If the dwarfs saw, they gave no sign. Their attentions were held with iron rigidity on Neferata, even as she had known they would be. They had not asked for her weapons, for what threat could one woman – even one who drank blood – be to a mighty hold?

The entry hall was massive, with vast fluted galleries that swept up into smooth balconies that looked as if they had been coaxed from the stone by the hands of a sculptor rather than a stonemason. Tiles lined the floors, each one a work of art in and of itself, depicting an act of heroism or courage by a member of the Silverfoot clan. Large ancestor statues, representing past generations of kings, thanes, and lords of the Silver Pinnacle, lined the walls, each ensconced in his own nook.

Glowing globes, containing luminescent liquid, hung from stone half-arches spaced evenly along the length of the hall, casting a soft glow across everything. At the other end of the hall was a second set of great doors. These were another defence measure, sealing off the remainder of the Upper Deep from invasion. She knew both from her conversations with Razek and from her own spies over the centuries that the hold had many entrances – not just the one she had come through. There were doors everywhere on this level and others, some hidden, some not.

Regardless of the size of the attackers’ force, there was no way to lay siege to a dwarf hold. A mountain could no more be surrounded than it could be levelled by conventional means. It must be inundated and worn down from within as well as without. Both could take years.

She had months.

The weight of the hold seemed to press down on her as they walked. The thunder of the guards’ heartbeats was like some harsh, strange music to her ears, and its tempo aroused a nervousness in her that she was not used to. It was like being close to the beating heart of the world itself, and she desired nothing more than to drive her fangs into it and drink the earth’s life away and to leave the rocks grey and barren and the soil cracked and dry. She wanted to drink the world’s lifeblood and leave it a husk.

Her knuckles popped as her hands clenched. One of the dwarfs eyed her and exuded the stink of nervousness. That wasn’t her thinking those thoughts. It was Nagash’s damnable crown. Nagash wanted to eat the world and ride its shell into the darkness between the stars, for an eternity of silence. And Ushoran would help him do it, if there was anything of Ushoran left.

The crown’s weight had crushed him the minute he placed it upon his brow. It had shattered his personality into fragments, breaking him the way a man might break a horse. And it had nearly done the same to her. It wanted to break everything. It wanted to render the world a vast charnel pit, peopled only by the dead. And she would be damned to oblivion before she let that happen.

The world was hers; every scrap of dirt, every peasant and lord, human or otherwise. It was hers and Nagash – or his shade – would never have it. She would burn it to ashes before she let that happen. She had lost her city and her empire. She would not lose the world.

Dwarfs in armour marched past, some throwing curious glances her way. Razek had never spoken of the Silver Pinnacle’s military might, but she knew that it was substantial. They had easily weathered an orc Waaagh! and Kadon’s ill-fated incursions, among other perils. And King Borri had fought against the elves in that distant time when Ulthuan’s armies had marched on the dwarf holds.

The Silver Pinnacle would not fall easily. Not to conventional tactics.

A dull rhythmic thudding filled the air. She brushed aside the reverie, concentrating on what was coming. She had been led into a vast chamber, larger even than Ushoran’s gaudy monstrosity of an audience chamber. The first thing she saw was the glaring skull of a dragon.

She had never seen one. The closest she had ever come was a glimpse of the saurians of the Southlands, and they were as different from dragons as men were from her kind. The skull was large and studded with horns and it bent over as if in benediction.

Whatever force lingered within those bones, was unwelcoming at best and malevolently hostile at worst. In many ways, it reminded her of the cold malice of Nagash’s crown. A vast, ancient presence that threatened to blot out her senses with the effluvium of its passage. Even Nagash, the voice of the crown said, even Nagash would have hesitated to face that thing when it had lived.

But it was dead now, and its skull and spine and tattered wings were trophies for the dwarf king who sat glowering beneath it.

The throne beneath the bones was not large, but impressive all the same, as was the squat figure who sat upon it. Borri Silverfoot, King of Karaz Bryn, Lord of the Silver Pinnacle, looked like an ancient version of his son. He was broader, if anything, and heavily built. He wore no robes, only a sleeveless suit of fine mail, belted at the waist by a broad leather belt. On his white head was a simple circlet of office. His only decorations were the silver charms woven into his great beard and the silver bracers which enclosed his massive forearms.

Several figures stood to either side of him. One was a dwarf woman, clad in heavy, pale robes with her head hooded and her hands folded into her sleeves. She carried no weapons, but her eyes burned with something that Neferata could not identify beneath her steel half-mask. A burly bare-chested warrior, more squat than any dwarf she had ever seen before, stood a few steps down from the throne. He held an unadorned axe and his head was shaved, save for a swooping crest of rust-hued hair. His beard had been dyed the same colour, and it had been greased into stiff spikes that stuck out in all directions. Just behind the throne, an elderly dwarf stood, leaning against the haft of his hammer, which was taller than he was. His beard reached to the stone, and hundreds of rune-stones had been threaded through it. The sound they made as they clinked together set Neferata’s teeth on edge.

Her escort fell back as she approached the throne and dwarfs in heavy armour with their faces hidden behind iron masks took their place. They carried heavy, but perfectly balanced, hammers in their gauntlets, and looked less like living things than stumping mechanisms. They escorted her to the foot of the throne dais and then formed a living palisade around her. It bore the air of formality and ritual, rather than caution, but she knew that even so, the warriors would be alert to any threat to their king.

‘My son is dead,’ Borri said, his voice shattering the silence like a hammer ringing on an anvil.

‘Yes,’ Neferata said. One of the guards took the axe from her hand and carried it reverentially up the steps to the throne. Borri’s blunt fingers brushed the bloodstains on the handle and for a moment, his eyes clouded over with pain. Then they snapped back into focus and he flicked his fingers. The warrior laid the axe across Borri’s lap and stepped aside to stand with his king.

‘How did he die, and how did you come to bring me the news?’ Borri said.

‘He did not die by my hand, and I was commanded thus,’ she said.

A hush fell over the audience chamber, as if every dwarf present had drawn in a breath at the same moment. Borri’s expression didn’t change.

‘The manling lies,’ the red-crested dwarf grated. He looked at his king and then at Neferata, and gestured with his axe. ‘She lies! Razek was a mighty warrior!’

‘Silence, Grund. I asked how he died,’ Borri said hollowly. Grund fell silent, glaring at her.

‘As a result of treachery,’ she said plainly.

‘Whose?’ Borri said, his fingers curling almost protectively over the haft of the axe.

‘My lord Ushoran’s,’ Neferata said. ‘He struck down Razek and his followers.’

‘As the runes foretold,’ the old dwarf wheezed, his knuckles popping as he tightened his grip on his hammer. ‘Razek’s doom was writ long ago. This he knew.’

Borri gave a stiff nod. ‘It does not mitigate the stain of the misdeed,’ he said. Then, more loudly, ‘Step forth, Grudgemaster! There is a record to be made!’

An older dwarf, clad in ceremonial robes, stepped forwards from the crowd, cradling a heavy book in his arms. The book was almost as large as the dwarf himself and nearly as thick, and he carried it forwards with difficulty as well as reverence. Its covers were made from thick plates of silver and bronze, and the spine was made of iron. As the book-bearer moved, the king’s guard began to rhythmically pound the floor with the heads of their hammers, and a droning dirge rose from the throats of the gathered dwarfs. Neferata’s hackles rose as the sound resounded through the hall and coiled around her like restraining chains.

‘Be honoured, woman,’ Borri said, his voice carrying easily over the dirge. ‘You are to pay witness to something sacred.’ His eyes were deep and dark and sad as they held hers, and Neferata was once more struck by the thought that the dwarfs would make better allies than enemies. Borri motioned to the bones that loomed over his throne. ‘This beast took my father and my brother,’ he said solemnly. Grund flinched, looking away. ‘I took its life and made its lair into my home. The debt was thus paid. Debts must always be paid.’ Neferata said nothing. Borri grunted. ‘Good. Your words are neither needed nor welcomed.’

The Grudgemaster ascended the stairs towards the throne, and Grund joined him, sinking to one knee before Borri. The book was placed on Grund’s broad back and he grunted as its great weight settled on him. He leaned on his axe for support as the Grudgemaster carefully opened the book. Ancient parchment crackled. The Grudgemaster barked something in Khazalid and a younger dwarf hurried forwards, bearing a heavy stone bowl filled with what Neferata thought might be ink. The Grudgemaster extracted a silver and leather writing implement from within his robes and handed it to Borri, who took it and dipped it into the bowl of ink.

Silence fell. As the echoes of the dirge faded, Borri began to write. And as he wrote, he spoke. ‘Let it be henceforth recorded that I, King Borri of Karaz Bryn record this grudge before my people. I name myself grudgesworn against Ushoran, King of Mourkain. He is zanguzaz, and treacherous. By his hand did my son and heir, Razek, Thane of Karaz Bryn, meet his doom. Recompense and reparation are called for, and accounts will be settled in blood. Before my thanes, and my people, and with Grungni, Grimnir and Valaya as my witnesses, I swear this oath.’

The Grudgemaster sprinkled ground stone on the page and Borri carefully blew it off. Then he closed the book and looked up. ‘Why did Ushoran do this?’ Borri’s voice grew soft, but it carried as easily as before. The Grudgemaster took the book up and descended the dais. Grund stood and cracked his neck, working the kinks out.

Neferata shrugged. ‘Why ask, mighty king? The result stands. Razek is dead and I am here to demand the surrender of your hold.’

Borri was silent for a moment. Then he laughed. There was no humor in the sound; it was akin to the creaking of rocks just prior to an avalanche, and as he threw back his head, the avalanche fell. The laughter echoed through the silent audience chamber. Unlike in Ushoran’s court, no one here picked up the thread and joined their voice to Borri’s. The king laughed alone. As the echoes faded, he gazed at her steadily. ‘Surrender it to whom, woman?’ Borri rumbled.

‘To me,’ Neferata said.

‘Mad as well as a liar,’ Grund said. ‘By Grimnir’s beard, I’ll have your head!’ He raised his axe and started down the stairs.

‘Stay,’ Borri said. Grund halted. Neferata smiled. ‘She has come under a flag of truce, and audacity buys her mercy. You may leave as you entered, woman. None here will stay you. Go, and leave us to our grief. In time we will meet again, and I shall not be so merciful.’

Neferata didn’t move.

‘Did you hear me?’ Borri said, his voice taking on a menacing edge.

Neferata’s reply was to draw her sword and bound over the heads of the hammerers. The dwarfs sprang into motion even as her foot touched the stairs. Her blade looped out, slicing through Borri’s beard and sending one of the charms bouncing down the stairs. Borri’s hand fastened on the blade and he jerked her forwards even as he drove the tip into the back of his throne. Razek’s axe sliced out and she was forced to release her sword and flip backwards to avoid its bite. She landed in a crouch on the stairs, but not for long.

Grund crashed into her, nearly flattening her. His axe cut at her a moment later and she found herself surprised by the crested dwarf’s speed. Even as heavy as he looked, he still moved almost as fast as she herself. With a joyful howl, he threw himself at her. ‘Take my burden from me, witch!’