Текст книги "Neferata"

Автор книги: Josh Reynolds

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THREE

The Great Desert

(–1158 Imperial Reckoning)

The raiders pushed their horses hard beneath the moon’s idiot gaze. Sand made blue by the moonlight puffed and blew as the horses – famed for their stamina and stride – pounded along the bandit-road. Behind them, the caravan burned.

In a wagon swiftly being consumed by hungry flames, Neferata rose and pushed the collapsing canopy of the wagon aside with a growl of frustration. Naaima lay unmoving on the ground outside, an arrow jutting from between her breasts. Neferata knew that a simple arrow would do nothing worse to one of their kind than render them immobile but even so, the sight of her handmaiden in such a state drove her into a rage.

It had been nothing more than a lucky shot. But now the dogs of the desert were riding away, her treasures in their saddlebags. Gold and silver from Lahmia and the lands of the Dragon-Emperor, the wealth of ages, intended for greater things than being bartered for a drudge in some desert-rat’s tent. Neferata snarled again and ripped an arrow from her shoulder, flinging it aside. She dropped down beside Naaima and plucked the arrow from her chest. Naaima’s mouth opened and a rattling shriek escaped her lips as she sat up, eyes wild.

Neferata helped her to her feet and brushed a lock of bloody hair from her eyes. ‘Can you walk?’ she said.

‘Y-yes,’ Naaima rasped, rubbing the already closing wound with trembling fingers.

‘Then you can run,’ Neferata said, spinning and sprinting in the direction the raiders had taken. After a moment’s hesitation, Naaima followed. The two women ran swiftly, more swiftly than any mortal being, and soon enough the horses came into sight. Neferata shrieked hungrily and leapt onto a horse’s flank, her claws sinking into the animal’s haunch. It squealed in fear and pain as Neferata swung up onto it like a lioness and pounced on the rider. She tore aside his scarf and headdress and sank her fangs into his throat, cutting off his scream. Sliding into a sitting position behind him, she ripped and chewed at the flesh of his throat, swallowing hot mouthfuls of pumping blood as she snatched the reins from his hand.

Naaima loped past, her jaws gaping, her delicate features stretching into something inhuman. A rider turned back and gave a yell as the vampire flung herself at him from a sand dune. She snatched him off his horse and hurled him to the ground, falling on him like a bird of prey. Neferata rode past and let the body of her victim tumble from his saddle.

She urged the horse on, conserving her own strength. The other raiders were pulling around, only just now realising that they had been pursued. Saddlebags bulged with ill-gotten loot. She rose in the saddle, letting the moonlight catch her bestial features. Men froze, hands quivering inches from sword hilts or bows. Her hair flared around her like a black halo and her jaws gaped wide, her tongue writhing in a nest of fangs. Eyes like hell-lamps blazed as she crashed among them, releasing the reins to stretch her hands out. Almost gently, her fingers played across the chests of the first two men, crushing them at the instant of impact and bursting their hearts in their breasts.

An arrow cut across her arm and she leapt from the saddle, bearing another rider to the desert. The archer fired again, skilfully controlling his horse with his knees. Neferata crouched over her kill, hissing as another arrow sank into her thigh.

Naaima leapt onto the archer’s back, ripping at him. He fell from his horse and snatched at a dagger sheathed on his belt as the two vampires closed in. Naaima leapt back as the knife sliced across her belly. Her hands came away with the rider’s mask. Neferata stopped suddenly, her grimace softening. ‘Ha,’ she said.

The archer was a woman. Fear had contorted her features, but it was easy to see that she was beautiful, albeit in a hard way. ‘Daemons,’ she spat, in the tongue of the desert peoples. She watched them warily, the dagger extended.

‘No,’ Neferata replied. ‘Not daemons, little sister.’ She rose to her full height and let her face soften back into its human semblance. ‘Not quite, at any rate.’

The woman was young, and her heartbeat sped up as Neferata approached. In the moonlight, the young woman’s face was almost familiar, and an old, remembered pang shivered up through her. ‘She looks just like her,’ she said softly. ‘Doesn’t she, Naaima? Just like my little hawk…’

‘No,’ Naaima said. ‘Neferata – no, don’t do this.’

‘What is your name?’ Neferata purred, ignoring her handmaiden, pressing a finger to the tip of the girl’s blade and moving it aside.

The young woman’s eyes had gone vague, their fierceness draining as Neferata’s hypnotic voice and gaze insinuated itself into her mind, numbing her and dulling her thoughts. ‘Rasha bin Wasim,’ she said hollowly.

‘Rasha,’ Neferata repeated, rolling the letters across her tongue. She brushed the dagger aside and it fell to the sand with a thump. ‘You remind me of someone, Rasha. Should I tell you about her?’

‘Neferata, stop—’ Naaima began, starting forwards.

‘Her name was Khalida and I loved her very much,’ Neferata said, fangs flashing as she plunged them into Rasha’s throat.

The Worlds Edge Mountains

(–800 Imperial Reckoning)

Neferata hit the ground and bounced to her feet with a hiss. She swept her sword from its sheath and slashed wildly at her attacker. He snarled and met her steel with his own. They traded blows, reeling back and forth across the snow.

Bloody froth collected at the corners of his mouth as he snarled at her. She heard sinew-strings rub against wood as arrows were fitted into bows. She hissed in frustration. Then, with a wild cry, her opponent lunged, his sword descending towards her.

Neferata caught his thick wrist and held it. He mimicked her, grabbing her wrist as her sword dug for his heart. His eyes bulged and black veins stood out on his pale skin as he tried to match her strength.

‘Neferata—’ Naaima began, rushing towards her.

‘Get the archers!’ Neferata snarled.

Her handmaidens sprang to obey. Stregga and Rasha raced towards the horsemen as a number of arrows leapt to meet them. The women dived and twisted, their shapes blurring. The sound of bones snapping and skin ripping filled the air and then they were among the horses, setting them to bucking and squealing and their riders to clinging on for dear life.

Naaima set herself between Neferata and the other riders, her blade swatting arrows from the air. Neferata, free to ignore Vorag’s men, concentrated on the other vampire. She was stronger, she knew. Indeed, it was all he could do to keep her at bay. No longer distracted, she smiled at him and easily jerked her hand free of his grip. She dropped her sword and placed her free hand against his face. ‘Bow, Vorag of Strigos,’ she said. ‘Bow or die, such is the way of our kind. Has the one who made you not taught you that?’ She leaned close. ‘Submit, and I will teach you many things…’

Vorag frothed as he struggled. He snapped and whined like a wild animal in Neferata’s clutch. She shook him slightly, with no sign of effort, and his sword fell from his grip. He grabbed for her wrist and her fingers stabbed into his head like bilge-hooks. Vorag screamed as she lifted him off his feet by the flesh of his face. His men sat frozen, awestruck by the sight of their leader being handled as if he were a dog.

‘Enough,’ someone said, then, louder, ‘Enough, my queen!’ Naaima shouted.

Neferata dropped Vorag and turned, licking blood from her fingers. ‘Yes, quite so, Naaima. I think I have made my point.’ She looked at her fingers. ‘That tastes familiar.’ She sank to her haunches, grabbed Vorag’s scalplock and jerked his head up. ‘Who gave you the blood-kiss, man of Strigos?’

Vorag spat a curse and she tightened her grip and slammed his head into the ground. Jerking him up again, she said, ‘Who?’

‘Ushoran, my queen,’ a deep voice rumbled. Neferata froze. Then, she uncoiled and rose, still holding tight to Vorag’s scalplock. She glanced over her shoulder. The others were standing near Naaima, separated from Vorag’s men by a newly arrived trio of armoured figures on horseback who watched them all with red gazes. Their armour was cruelly ornate and stained red, with a heavy cuirass of flaring ridges and curved edges over a suit of long mail. The tallest of the three men urged his horse forwards. As one, the human warriors dropped from their saddles to kneel in the snow, heads bowed. Like Vorag and Neferata and her followers, the newcomers were vampires, though as different from Neferata’s people as dusk from dawn.

Naaima and the others drew back, disconcerted by the sheer malevolent power radiating from the armoured man. The fanged visor of a winged helm was flipped up, revealing a noble, if brutal face. ‘My queen,’ he said again. There was no respect in his voice. The title was delivered grudgingly and the words were bitten off.

‘Abhorash,’ Neferata said harshly. And then, more softly, ‘My champion…’ Abhorash looked different than the last time she had seen him. Stronger, perhaps. As with herself, the years since the fall of Lahmia had burned him clean of imperfection. He was every inch the warrior; every movement spoke to potential violence, every word was a thrust of steel.

He had always been handsome, after a fashion, with solid features scooped to a point, like some great bird of prey wearing a human mask. In her youth, she had been enamoured of him, but childish fancy had faded into mature discontent as she grew to know him better. As she saw his weaknesses for what they were, rather than for the nobility he claimed to possess.

Her mind reeled at the sight of him. What was he doing here? How had he got here? Was he following the black sun as well? Question after question splashed across her mind but with a shake of her head she thrust them aside; now was no time for questions.

‘Surprised to see me?’ Abhorash said grimly. His voice was strained, as if some great roiling fount of emotion were hidden beneath his façade of arrogance.

‘Seeing as you were intent on dying gloriously the last time I spoke with you… no,’ Neferata said. ‘You always were a disappointment.’ The jibe was meant to cut, and by the flicker of expression that flitted across his face, she knew it had struck home. He had never taken easily to immortality, though he had desired it strongly enough in the beginning. For a warrior he was surprisingly squeamish regarding the more practical aspects of eternity. Or he had been, at least. He looked hale and hearty enough now, and stank of blood as surely as she herself did. ‘Ushoran made this?’ she said.

‘He has made many,’ Abhorash said, faintly disapproving.

Neferata hesitated. She looked down at Vorag. He had said that this land was a gift. Whose gift, Ushoran’s? He had mentioned other names as well… Strezyk and Gashnag. Were they more vampires? The implications were unpleasant.

Abhorash grunted and gestured to Vorag. ‘Release him.’

‘Who are you to give me orders, champion?’ Neferata said, jerking Vorag’s head viciously. The vampire groaned and she wondered at Abhorash’s words – was this creature truly one of Ushoran’s get? Had that conniving little rat made a nest for himself somewhere in these mountains?

‘Not your champion. Not any more. Release him, woman, or I will be forced to—’ Abhorash rumbled, fingers caressing the serpentine pommel of the blade sheathed at his side.

‘Die? Wouldn’t that be a shame,’ Khaled said, drawing his own sword and sliding between Neferata and Abhorash.

‘Move, boy,’ Abhorash grated, his dark eyes blazing. He blinked as if in recognition. Khaled hesitated, but stood firm.

‘Ahhhhh,’ Neferata breathed. ‘I see you know my new champion, Abhorash.’

‘You are as profligate as Ushoran,’ Abhorash rumbled.

‘I was only finishing the job you started,’ Neferata spat, and Khaled twitched.

Abhorash shrugged, like a wolf shaking off an insect bite. ‘Release Timagal Vorag,’ he said again. Abhorash’s two companions urged their mounts forwards, drawing their own swords. Neferata’s eyes glowed like lamps, and her lips had writhed back from her fangs. Violence hung on the air, palpable and terrible. The humans had gone white and they trembled, like field-mice caught between duelling cats.

‘Whose champion are you now, Abhorash?’ Neferata said. ‘Are you Ushoran’s dog now?’

‘I am no dog, queen of nothing,’ Abhorash snarled, hunching forwards in his saddle.

Neferata abruptly released Vorag and stepped past Khaled towards the litter where Razek still slept, unawares. Abhorash blinked, surprise writ on his features.

‘What—?’

‘He said he was going to Mourkain,’ said Neferata. ‘He and his people were ambushed by a group of those twisted beast-men that seem to infest these mountains. They all died, save him.’ She looked at Abhorash shrewdly. ‘You were out here looking for him, weren’t you?’

‘What?’ he said again.

‘You were never fleet of thought, my champion. That these men should show up on the path the dwarfs were taking to Mourkain is too much of a coincidence,’ Neferata said slowly, as if speaking to a child. She recalled Vorag’s eyes as he had caught sight of Razek. ‘They were looking for them, weren’t they? An escort… and you were out here to escort the escort, but why? Oh, I smell Ushoran, and not just on that lout’s blood…’ She grinned. ‘Does he not trust his own disciple?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Or perhaps it’s you who doesn’t trust him, hmm?’

Abhorash’s face went still and stiff and Neferata knew that she had again struck a nerve. ‘Well, regardless, I have saved you the trouble of finding him. Let’s deliver him together, shall we? I should like to see my esteemed Lord of Masks once more.’

Abhorash’s men looked to him for orders, and for a moment, Neferata wondered whether his hatred of her would outweigh his common sense. If so, she would be forced to kill them and perhaps him. The former was certain, the latter… not so much. Of all the first immortals, Abhorash was perhaps the only one who could match her. It was a shame that he was such a hidebound fool.

Abhorash snorted and waved his men back. ‘Sheathe your swords, Lutr, Walak.’ He looked at Vorag, distaste evident on his face. ‘And someone help the Bloodytooth up.’

‘Are you sure this is wise?’ Naaima said, joining Neferata. Her fingers toyed with the hilt of her sword and she eyed Abhorash’s broad back speculatively.

‘Of course it’s not, but the time for wisdom has long since passed,’ Neferata said. ‘She who hesitates is lost, after all.’

Naaima snorted. Neferata glanced at her, then away, choosing to ignore the jibe. ‘The Bloodytooth,’ she said, nodding to the brute as his men helped him up. He shook them off with snarls and curses.

‘A barbarian,’ Naaima said.

‘And a vampire,’ Neferata said, rubbing a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth and examining it between her fingers. Vorag, on his feet again, looked at her and his gaze became speculative. Then he grimaced and rubbed the still-bleeding wounds her fingertips had made in his face.

‘He’s not used to it yet. He barely knows more than Anmar. He is stupid,’ Naaima said.

‘Or Ushoran has not taught him all that he is capable of.’ Neferata licked her fingers clean. ‘Interesting, that…’

Naaima looked at her. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘You know me well enough to know that, sweet Naaima,’ Neferata said, stroking the other’s cheek briefly. ‘I am seeking the advantage.’

As she turned away, she caught sight of the black sun and it seemed to pull at her more strongly than ever. It loomed large, larger than it ever had before, and seemed intent on swallowing the moon and the stars. Neferata blinked and looked away, but to no avail. It flickered and invaded her vision from every angle. She could hear it now, as well, a sibilant drone that invaded her thoughts. She shook her head, unable to discern the words she knew lurked within the sound.

The darkness at the heart of the sun squirmed and she was reminded of the great asps’ nests that sat beneath the floors of the temple to Asaph. Slithering shapes coiled and pulsed in the belly of the black sun. They were vague things and stirred in her a fear such as she had not felt even when Alcadizzar’s knife had plucked at her heart. They writhed like pain-contorted bodies in a fire-pit, or perhaps corpses trying to pull themselves from the earth.

Hurry, Neferata, the voice seemed to say. Watching the shapes, she thought of the dead men that W’soran had wrenched from their slumber of ages and set upon Alcadizzar’s forces in that final, great battle. Something in the darkness seemed to latch on to this thought. The blackness stretched towards her from over the mountains, speeding towards her, faster and faster.

Neferata wanted to run, to flee, but she was rooted to the spot. The needle-on-bone voice was back, digging into her hindbrain like a butcher’s hook into meat. It wanted something from her, something important. What did it want? What?

‘What do you want?’ she whispered.

‘You hear it as well,’ Abhorash said. He had dismounted, and led his horse by its reins.

She looked up. ‘Hear what, my champion?’ she said, forcing a smile as she shoved the sibilant, sharp whispers aside.

‘Don’t call me that,’ he said. ‘And do not play games with me.’ He gazed steadily at her, as if searching for the answer in her face. ‘Why are you here?’ he said softly, rubbing his horse’s nose. There was a wary look in his eyes, and a bubble of laughter rose up in her.

‘Why am I not dead and buried beneath the Arabyan sands, you mean?’ She glanced at Khaled. ‘You taught him well.’

Abhorash said nothing. Neferata moved closer to him. ‘Then, you did what you always do – you left. You left those who were counting on you. And I stayed, and made the best of it.’ She showed her fangs and Abhorash looked away. ‘Is that shame, warrior? Or embarrassment?’

Abhorash’s gaze snapped back towards her, hot and angry. ‘Neither. It is disgust.’

Neferata hissed. ‘It is I who should be disgusted!’ She leaned close. ‘If you hadn’t left—’

‘I left because I was no longer fit to stay!’ he thundered. Neferata stepped back, blinking. The raw pain in Abhorash’s voice was hard to ignore. ‘None of us were,’ he said, looking away. ‘We should have all left. I should have made you. If I had…’

‘If you had, Nagash still would have done as he did, and Nehekhara would still be dead,’ Neferata said. ‘And we would be dead with it.’

‘We belong dead,’ Abhorash said. Neferata said nothing. ‘It is the pyramid,’ he said after a moment, abruptly switching topics.

‘And what pyramid are you referring to?’ Neferata said, not looking at him.

‘You’ll see it soon enough,’ he grunted, turning back to his horse. ‘You want to go to Mourkain, after all.’

‘Feel free to talk about it anyway,’ she said. ‘What is it, Abhorash? Did it call you as well?’ An unintended note of pleading entered her voice and she cursed herself for the weakness. ‘Does it come to you in your dreams?’

He shifted uncomfortably. She relented, seeing that he would not speak of it. ‘Tell me about Mourkain,’ she said. ‘Tell me about Ushoran.’

‘He has made himself king over these people,’ Abhorash said. ‘Savages mostly, though their culture is not as degenerate as some in these mountains,’ he added. He was looking at Vorag as he said it.

‘And Strigos,’ she said.

‘Their name for themselves,’ Abhorash said. ‘The Strigoi of Strigos, and Mourkain is their capital.’ He looked at her. ‘They are a hardy people.’

‘They speak Nehekharan,’ she said.

‘A debased form, yes, I suppose they do,’ Abhorash said.

‘And you don’t find that curious?’

‘I hadn’t given it much thought. Settra had outposts farther north than this in his time,’ Abhorash said, as if that explained everything. ‘In time, they might even be as our people are. Were,’ he added, frowning. Neferata grimaced. The people of Nehekhara were dead and gone now. They were dust and bones, thanks to Nagash.

‘And now Ushoran rules them,’ she said. ‘How did that come about, I wonder?’

Abhorash looked at her. ‘Does it disturb you?’

‘Doesn’t it you? Oh, I forgot, you’re his champion now, aren’t you?’

Abhorash growled. Neferata met his glare and held it. ‘It won’t work, you know. Not with him. Ushoran is no more a king than—’

‘Than you are a queen,’ Abhorash bit out. ‘Not now and never again.’ He took her hand. ‘Neferata…’

She yanked her hand free of his grip. ‘No one touches me without my permission, my champion,’ she said.

‘As I have said, I am no longer your champion,’ he said, letting his hand drop to his sword’s pommel.

‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘You are Ushoran’s champion now.’

Abhorash’s lip curled. ‘No. That particular honour goes to Vorag. I am a mere ajal.’

Neferata cocked her head. ‘Ajal,’ she repeated, tasting the unfamiliar word.

‘It is the Strigoi term for a lesser lord. Ushoran is stingy with titles,’ Abhorash said, smiling thinly.

‘Why?’ she said.

‘Why?’ He seemed puzzled by the question.

‘Yes, Abhorash, why,’ she said. ‘Why serve him at all?’

His eyes shrank to slits. ‘You wouldn’t understand, my queen,’ he said.

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

He turned and strode away, his cloak flaring about him. Neferata watched him go and snorted.

‘He is frightened,’ Naaima said. Neferata looked at her handmaiden. As ever, she had not heard the other woman’s approach. In life, Naaima had been a shadow, and little had changed in death.

‘Abhorash doesn’t know how to be frightened,’ Neferata said, albeit with more uncertainty than she was used to.

‘Then he has learned,’ Naaima said.

Neferata frowned. If Naaima was right, then that boded ill. What was Abhorash frightened of? Did he feel the same hungry pull that she did? Was that what had drawn him to Mourkain?

Do you feel it, Neferata? Do you feel the silent angles of the Corpse Geometries growing sharper about you? The charnel mathematics of Usirian have drawn you here, Neferata…

‘Silence,’ she hissed, closing her eyes. The voice withdrew. Usirian was the god of decay and death. The jackal-headed potentate of graveyards and dead-things; he was no more real than Asaph or Ptra. She pulled her furs tighter about her, suddenly, inexplicably cold.

Neferata and the others were given the horses of those of Vorag’s men killed in battle with the beasts. The animals did not shy when the vampires mounted. Vorag met Neferata’s questioning gaze and said, ‘Hetman Ushoran instituted a breeding programme several years ago. He wanted horses that would be used to our smell.’ He patted his own.

‘That implies that there are enough of us to ride them,’ she said. Hetman meant king, she thought, from the context.

Vorag smiled widely. ‘More than enough, I should say. Everyone important got the bite.’ He chuckled. ‘And more than a few who weren’t.’

‘Which are you?’

Vorag’s face reddened and then he grunted out a laugh. ‘I’d be insulted, but I have a feeling you’d make me pay for it, Lady Neferata.’

‘I would indeed, Timagal Vorag,’ she said. There was much of Ushoran in this creature, or perhaps like simply called to like. She had proven herself the stronger and now Vorag would play nice. At least until her back was turned.

‘I am important,’ he said. ‘The hetman gave me estates and men, which is more than he gave to some agals.’

‘Agal and ajal,’ Neferata murmured, filing the terms away for reference. Even among barbarians there was a hierarchy. ‘Tell me more, Timagal… I would not appear ignorant.’

The ad-hoc column marched at night, out of deference to the immortals. Sunlight could be borne, at least by herself and Abhorash, but for the others it was tantamount to a slow death. They made good time regardless. Signs of civilisation had become more prevalent. Smoke trails in the distance spoke to the presence of villages and there were signs of the land being cleared. They passed by a number of mounted patrols, almost identical to Vorag’s men. The Strigoi were taller and broader than the men of Neferata’s homeland, and paler than many she had seen since. They wore rough, utilitarian clothing and leather armour covered in metal studs that jangled softly as they rode. Scalplocks like Vorag’s were common and she wondered whether he had started the fashion. The riders gave Abhorash and his two warriors a wide berth, and Vorag glared openly at the other vampire, but only when his back was turned and only when he wasn’t tutoring Neferata in the peculiarities of Strigoi culture. Such outright hostility could prove useful, if it were properly focused, she thought.

She kept close to Vorag, plying him with compliments and questions. One in particular she was most interested in getting an answer to. ‘You mentioned others earlier…’ she said. ‘Like us.’ She stroked his forearm as their mounts trotted side-by-side. ‘It has been so long since I have met others of our kind, save those I brought into this life myself.’

‘We are many,’ Vorag said, smiling. ‘It’s Ushoran’s idea of promotion.’

‘Ah,’ Neferata said. In Lahmia, they had purposely kept their numbers small, if only for safety’s sake. ‘Strigos is an aristocracy of the night, then.’

Vorag nodded. ‘Too many, if you ask me. We were few, at first. Then…’ He made a limp gesture. His smile turned feral. ‘Granted, the younger ones don’t last long.’

‘No?’

‘We are a fierce, proud people, my lady,’ Vorag said, gesturing to his scars. He pulled a necklace out from beneath his cuirass and a number of fangs rattled on it. Neferata repressed a look of disgust. Vorag stuffed the gruesome trophies back beneath his armour. ‘We fight as well as we f—’

‘Yes,’ Neferata said as Vorag urged his horse forwards, responding to a shout from one of his men. Personal combat wasn’t unfamiliar to her. Such had been the law of the land in Nehekhara as well, though it had been a bit more organised in the case of her people. An old pain rose to the surface.

In her mind’s eye, she saw the feast where it had all started to go wrong. She saw Khalida – her little hawk – stand up to accuse her of black magic and obscene rites. Only one of which was true. Khalida had demanded a trial by combat, and Neferata, trapped by her own words, had given in to her cousin.

She heard the clash of steel and felt that first gash beneath her left breast. She again felt that thrill of fear, so alien now more than a century after the fact. Again, she saw the blade in her cousin’s hand looping out for her throat. She could feel Khalida’s heart hammering through the thin material of her robe. And then she felt her die.

But she hadn’t, had she?

Neferata opened her eyes. Khalida had come back. Again and again, she came back. She shook her head, driving the thoughts aside. She had left all of that behind. Let the dead stay in the land of the dead.

‘Your fangs are showing, my lady,’ Khaled murmured. Neferata closed her lips and glanced at the other vampire. He smiled at her. She didn’t return the expression. He was never far away when she rode with Vorag. He was either overprotective or jealous, neither of which was useful to her at the moment.

‘Where are the others?’ she snapped. The forests had long since given way to the upper reaches of the mountains and the column of riders wound its way along a path into the high places. A few clumps of trees dotted the rocky slopes, but little else. They rode carefully. The Strigoi horses were bred for mountain travel, apparently, and displayed none of the skittishness she would have expected.

‘Scattered through the column, as you requested,’ he said. ‘Your eyes and ears are open and among the cattle, milady. We learn their language and customs, as you commanded.’

‘And why aren’t you with them?’

‘I felt it best to remain by your side, just in case…’ he trailed off hopefully.

‘Just in case what, my Kontoi?’ she asked, not looking at him. The word was Arabyan, and meant ‘noble rider’. In Bel Aliad, only men of noble birth rode horses into war, and clad themselves in the bronze and iron armour of the Kontoi.

She had learned, to her cost, of the power of a Kontoi charge. Especially when Abhorash rode at their head, as he had then. She looked at Khaled. ‘Just in case I should require your protection, perhaps?’ she snapped and her tone was as sharp as a slash of her claws. Khaled stiffened and dropped back as she rode on, and she cursed herself for her tone. Khaled required more reprimanding than her other servants, but honey had to alternate with vinegar sometimes. It wasn’t his fault. Her blood-kiss seemed to affect men in certain unfortunate ways. She considered Abhorash’s broad back and sniffed. Then, it always had, had it not?

Maybe Mourkain would provide answers to that as well.

She looked back at her followers, drifting through the column of riders with the feline grace that so characterised those with whom she shared her blood-kiss. They would return to her side, minds full of gossip, rumor and knowledge for her to sift through.

In life, she had employed the priestesses who served as her handmaidens in much the same fashion. No one noticed women or slaves. And they always heard such useful things.

What would they hear in Mourkain, she wondered? Maybe the answer to what the black sun was. She looked up, wondering what had attracted Vorag’s attention.

She looked ahead and the black sun seemed larger now; it had expanded in size, until its darkness swallowed all the stars and moon. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? Why–

Something brighter than the light of creation’s darkness flared into being around her, seared the air that filled her useless lungs and burned her pale skin to cracked and blackened scraps. She threw up her hands, but she was already blind and burning.

It rose over the mountains like some obscene beast crouching on the crags, its corona flickering through her thoughts like the tips of many knives. Cold heat slashed at her, chilling her bones even as it burned the flesh from them.

Neferata stood at the heart of the black sun and was consumed.

A world died.

Every living thing in this world died and then stirred, bones ancient and new alike shifting and rising. The Corpse Geometries flexed in the ocean of stars as the Kings and Queens of the Land of the Dead rose one by one from their mighty tombs and marched towards the black heart of the charnel kingdoms.