Текст книги "Neferata"

Автор книги: Josh Reynolds

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Familiar faces and forms stirred in the dust, rising and joining the march. She called out to them, but to no avail. They responded only to one voice, terrible and empty and cold. It was the voice like needles on bone. Simultaneously high and deep, like wind whistling through a ribcage, it spoke to her of the empire to come, the empire of ghosts and corpses, silent and perfect and eternal. The empire soon to rise…

Now that she was here. Now that she was in Mourkain.

Neferata opened her eyes and moaned. She swayed in her saddle as cemetery thoughts washed over her, seeking to pull her down. Again she tasted grave-dirt and smelled the rot of centuries. The concentrated essence of death filled her, making her light-headed.

‘Neferata,’ Naaima said, reaching for her. Neferata turned and saw the horror that hid beneath her handmaiden’s beauty. Maggots writhed through the gaping holes in the Cathayan’s cheeks and suppurating rents marred her nose and mouth. Teeth like razors flashed behind tattered lips. And in her chest beat a black sun just like the one in the sky.

Neferata felt her gaze drawn down. A similar pulsing mass of corruption throbbed in her chest. She looked at her hands in growing horror, seeing the sickly glow of her bones beneath the pallid, porous flesh. She looked up, and something impossibly massive and impossibly evil crouched between her and the sky, nestling in the dead stones of the mountains like a beast preparing to spring. It was a nightmare orchard of skewed minarets and thrusting towers, sprouting like broken spears from the bloody soil of a battlefield.

Hurry, Neferata! Come, claim your throne! You will be Queen of the World, Neferata. A queen of all that is, of all that ever will be for eternities without end. Come… come…

‘Neferata,’ Abhorash said from behind her. He grabbed her arm. She tore it free and spun, her fingers digging into the gorget that hid his throat. He crashed from his horse with a roar of surprise. Men’s hands flew to their weapons as Neferata leapt from her horse and dived on her former champion. Worms moved beneath his skin and for a moment, she considered trying to dig them out.

There was corruption everywhere she looked, seeping into the rocks and strangling the life out of the crooked trees. And not just the trees; the Strigoi were bound by black threads that held them tight to their vampire masters, and they were shrunken, skeletal things to her eyes.

Swords hissed out and she twisted aside as Abhorash’s men closed in on her from either side. She slid across the slushy ground on all fours, her jaws agape with a serpentine looseness. The red-armoured vampires advanced slowly, their blades extended.

‘Walak, Lutr,’ Abhorash gasped, pulling himself to his feet. ‘Don’t—’

They didn’t listen. The one called Lutr came in fast, his sword chopping out towards her midsection. She caught the edge of the blade on her palm and drove it into the ground. Her fist connected with the vampire’s helmet, crumpling the metal. Lutr dropped like a stone as Walak’s blade sliced through her furs and the flesh beneath. The pain brought her back to herself, banishing the nightmare voice and its attendant phantoms.

‘I said no!’ Abhorash roared, grabbing his warrior and hurling the man aside in a prodigious display of strength. The warrior landed in a heap in the snow. The two vampires faced each other, fangs bared. Neferata was the first to let hers sink back behind her lips.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, forcing herself to utter the words. She needed Abhorash. Whether or not he was a willing ally, she knew she needed him. She needed his strength, his staunchness. She needed her champion.

Abhorash hesitated, and then nodded brusquely. In his eyes, she saw that he knew exactly what it was that had driven her into such frenzy. Abhorash had seen it himself. ‘Mourkain,’ he said, pointing.

She turned, half fearing that the black sun would take her into its mad embrace once more, or that the foul mass she had glimpsed would lunge for her. Instead, she saw the land rise sharply into a crown of broken hills, through which slithered a dark and fierce river. And there, at the top, was Mourkain. The city rose up like tombstones over the hills and peaks and she knew that it was far larger than it appeared. It was not quite the abomination she had seen moments earlier, but she knew that it wasn’t far removed.

‘It is beautiful, is it not?’ Vorag said.

‘Yes,’ Neferata said, not knowing whether she was telling the truth.

FOUR

The Great Desert

(–1154 Imperial Reckoning)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Join, or serve?’ Neferata replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

YOU WILL.

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

YOU WILL SERVE ME.

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

The Worlds Edge Mountains

(–800 Imperial Reckoning)

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

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

Neferata said, ‘And the beasts?’

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

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

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

Neferata hesitated. ‘Abhorash, you mean?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who is he?’ Neferata said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I am fine,’ she said. ‘Lead on.’

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

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

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

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

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

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