Текст книги "Neferata"

Автор книги: Josh Reynolds

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The throne room was crowded with courtiers – men and women whose clothing, while crude by the standards of any civilised nation, was fine enough to speak to their relative position in Ushoran’s new hierarchy. In the sea of warm veins and throbbing pulses there were one or two spots of ugly cold. Vorag hadn’t been exaggerating. The men were swaggering bullies, not much different from Vorag – a warrior aristocracy, not long removed from the saddle. The women interested her more. They had the look of she-wolves barely broken to the leash. They had grown sleek on their husbands’ new statuses, but the hunger, the drive for more, lurked below the smiles and laughter. And, even more interestingly, none had been given the blood-kiss.

Of course, Ushoran had never been all that fond of women, beyond their more obvious qualities. A trait he had shared with her husband, Lamashizzar. It was a blind spot that a king could ill afford, let alone a spymaster.

She restrained a smile. It wasn’t hard. The situation was designed to annoy. One of Ushoran’s more prized abilities was being able to insert his hooks into the most painful soft point on psyche or physicality and to twist.

Ushoran wanted her to see him this way; to see him enshrined in glory. Or maybe he wanted her to do something foolish. That would be like him. His mind was crooked, and if Neferata was a leopardess, Ushoran was a spider. He wanted her to fly into his web.

Well, two could play at that game.

Razek stumped forwards at a gesture from Strezyk, cradling his axe in the crook of one brawny arm. It was a calculated insult, she knew, though whether by Strezyk or his master, she couldn’t say. ‘Hail, Ushoran, King of Strigos,’ Razek boomed, raising his free hand in greeting. ‘I, Razek Silverfoot, Thane of Karaz Bryn, bring you the greetings of my father, Borri Silverfoot, King of Karaz Bryn, which manlings call the Silver Pinnacle.’

Neferata blinked. That explained that. What little she knew of the dawi suggested they wouldn’t have sent just any warrior to open delicate negotiations, but a king’s son? That implied that this was something special or else that they took even the most routine political engagement extremely seriously. It also explained why he had been so secretive. Her mind spun off in new directions. Had the beast attack truly been what it seemed, or had something else been behind it?

‘You bring more than greetings, I trust, especially considering what you went through to get here,’ Ushoran said, chuckling. Dutiful laughter rose from the gathered court. Razek’s expression was like stone and Neferata hid a smile. Ushoran was a fool. In Lahmia, jape and jest had been the way of such things; informality hid the true currents of negotiation. But Razek was not human. And his greeting had told her everything about his view of such things. The dawi were a formal people, and Ushoran had just inadvertently insulted their official representative. Fool, she thought again.

‘Aye,’ Razek said as the sounds of amusement died away. He cleared his throat. ‘I offer you our hand in friendship, and oaths of trade and alliance.’ He proffered his hand in a ritualistic fashion.

‘I’d wager that hand is hoping to be filled with good Mourkain gold,’ Strezyk murmured to Ushoran in a too-loud voice. Razek’s face tightened and Neferata shook her head, amazed. It boggled her mind. How did Ushoran expect to do anything with fools like Strezyk serving him? It was disappointing. Whatever his other flaws, the Lord of Masks had at least been cunning while in her service. Perhaps he had lost his edge here in these uncivilised mountains.

Pay attention, she thought, focusing on the dais. Ushoran had been offered a truce and had launched an attack, though not a successful one. Contrary to popular opinion, it wasn’t always the weaker party who offered terms first; it was simply the party with the most to gain. Razek was talking again. She was impressed that the dwarf had held his temper; Naaima had said that they could be a volatile people. ‘Aye,’ Razek agreed. ‘We want your gold, as you want our artifice,’ he said bluntly. His temper might be holding, but it was definitely frayed if he had discarded formality, Neferata judged. ‘It seems a fair enough trade to us,’ Razek went on, setting his shoulders and raising his chin. ‘What about you, King of Strigos?’

Ushoran frowned. He had never liked being shown up, Neferata recalled with a flush of humour. ‘That is perhaps a conversation for a later time, Thane Silverfoot,’ he said, leaning back in his seat. ‘We have other matters to attend to this day.’ He waved and Strezyk clapped his hands. Men stepped forwards, surrounding the dwarf. For a moment, it looked as if Razek wasn’t going to move. Then, with a grunt and shrug, he turned to allow his escort to remove him from the hall. He glanced at Neferata as he stomped past. His face was unreadable. Regardless, she knew that it was a warning.

Strezyk clapped his hands again and she stepped forwards, leaving her own escort stumbling after her, trying to catch up. The crowd of backwoods nobles murmured. She ignored them.

‘We bid you greetings, Lady Neferata,’ Ushoran said, holding out his arms and stepping down the dais towards her. As she had noted before, the bland, innocuous Lord of Masks she remembered was gone, replaced by a handsome creature that seemed to have stepped straight out of a hero-myth. Even so, she caught a flickering glimpse of something else, a monstrous phantom shape superimposed over Ushoran. Which was his true form, she wondered?

‘Lady,’ she repeated, stepping forwards and flinging back the edge of her furs. ‘You forget yourself, Lord of Masks.’ She could sense the faint tremors in his web. What gambit would he employ? Would it be courtesy?

‘Neferata—’ Abhorash growled, making to step forwards. Ushoran gestured for him to remain where he was. He smiled at his former queen with apparent good humour.

‘No, my lady, I do not think that I do. Much has transpired since our last meeting,’ he said.

Neferata looked around the room, taking in the gathered faces. Though she did not know them, she recognised them well enough – the great and the good who clung like parasites to any throne. ‘So I see,’ she said.

‘I am hetman here, Neferata,’ Ushoran said, striding the rest of the way towards her. ‘From Mourkain, I rule the mountains of Strigos. Here is the seat of empire…’ he said grandly. A sudden burst of applause made him stop and raise a hand.

No, not courtesy then. He wanted her angry. That was her weak point.

‘Oh, well done,’ Neferata said. ‘Delightfully stage-managed, oh Lord of Masks.’

‘I am not the Lord of Masks any longer,’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘There are no masks in Mourkain. I am king. And it is only fitting that you should bow.’

Neferata burst out laughing. It was an obvious ploy. He had gone soft.

‘Impudent wench,’ Strezyk snarled, dragging the mace from his belt. He swung it at Neferata, intending to batter her off her feet. She whirled, ripping off her fur cloak as she did so and flinging it over his head. He roared and stumbled and then she was behind him. She sank into a crouch and her claws plunged into his legs, ripping through the leather of his boots to get to the flesh within. Strezyk screamed as he fell, hamstrung. Ushoran stepped back as his servant’s mace crashed to the floor.

Neferata rose and stepped over Strezyk’s thrashing form. The vampire was already healing, but he would be out of her hair for a few moments at least. She looked at Ushoran. Had that been planned? Was it a tug of the web? Ushoran retreated slowly up the dais, smiling insufferably at her. ‘As impressive as ever, my lady,’ he said. ‘Truly you are first among us, in power if not in status.’

‘The latter can be easily rectified, Ushoran,’ Neferata said, flicking blood from her fingers to the floor.

‘Implying what? Would you kill me?’ he said, laughing as he plopped back down into his throne. Abhorash’s men moved forwards warily. Neferata ignored them.

‘Kill you? No… You have proven yourself useful in the past, Ushoran. Perhaps you will again. But I am a queen. I do not bow.’ Two can tug on a strand, Ushoran, she thought.

‘And I am a king!’ Ushoran snapped. Ah, there it was. He had lost that mask of servility, at least. He had grown used to being master.

‘No, you are a fool and a fraud, clinging to a throne no doubt won through treachery and deceit,’ she said. His flinch told her that she had scored a point. She grinned. ‘I think it only fitting that you give me your kingdom, since you destroyed mine.’ I see your offer and raise, cunning one, she thought. A nervous titter rippled through the throne room.

Ushoran hissed. ‘Lahmia’s fall was not my fault, woman.’ His mask of civility was gone now too, to join the servility, replaced by a rage that was tinted more than a little with something that might have been madness. The armrests of his throne cracked in his grip, the stone turning to powder. ‘It was your madness! Your obsession with that puling princeling Alcadizzar! That was what damned us!’

It was Neferata’s turn to flinch. Too close to the truth not to hurt. She exposed her fangs and lunged up the steps, claws out. If he wanted her in the web, now was the time to dive in. Abhorash stepped forwards, placing himself between her and her prey as she knew he would. Predictable Abhorash, dependable Abhorash, still protecting her, even if he didn’t realise it. Her claws dug furrows in his mail and he grunted in shock as she sent him reeling. He countered by drawing his sword and forcing her to drop back down the step. Abhorash rose to his feet, the tip of the sword just beneath Neferata’s chin. She backed away slowly, arms held out. She could have pressed the matter if she had wished and he knew it.

‘Get out of my way, Abhorash,’ she said. ‘I would hate to kill you as well as him.’

‘Are you so maddened that you think you could get away with it?’ he said, looking at her with reproach. ‘Do you think that you can win a kingdom this way?’

Neferata looked around. Horrified eyes that belonged to human and vampire alike watched her much like a flock of birds might watch a snake slithering through the grass below them. Her face hardened as an icy calm replaced the only partially false fury that had filled her only moments before. Her own earlier words to Naaima filled her head – seek the advantage. ‘Maybe not hold one, but win one? Oh yes,’ she said calmly.

‘You’ve learned nothing in your years in the wilderness, I see,’ Ushoran growled.

‘Oh, I’ve learned much,’ Neferata said. ‘I’ve learned that thrones are like horses. They always throw their rider at the first sign of weakness.’ She reached up and pressed two fingers to Abhorash’s sword and pushed it aside. ‘I’ve learned that it is far better to be the one holding the reins than riding the horse.’

‘I thought you were a queen,’ Ushoran spat her words back at her.

‘I am, but not all queens sit on thrones,’ she said. She nodded to Abhorash, who stepped back. ‘You’ve given Abhorash a position within your new Lahmia, Ushoran. So why not do the same for me?’

‘You?’ Ushoran said, incredulously. Even Abhorash looked taken aback.

‘You need me, Ushoran,’ she said. ‘You know nothing of ruling a kingdom, nothing of statecraft or diplomacy. If you would be more than a petty warlord squatting in a tomb of stone, you will require someone with… finesse,’ she said.

‘I have more than enough advisors,’ Ushoran said suspiciously. She could see the wheels turning in his mind.

‘Yes, but what you do not have is a Lady of Masks,’ Neferata said, her foot on the first step of the dais. ‘Someone to shape your policy and be the dark left hand of this… paradise you have made.’

‘Strezyk serves me admirably in that capacity,’ Ushoran said slowly, gesturing to Strezyk. The vampire had got to his feet and reclaimed his mace. His face was flushed purple and his fangs jutted from his mouth like tusks. He sweated rage. Neferata glanced at him dismissively.

‘Strezyk is a fool. He insulted the dwarf and nearly cost you a potential ally. He allowed me to get within a hair’s breadth of you. He is foolish and vain and stupid, Ushoran. That is why you picked him. You never could stomach subordinates who were smarter than you.’

‘And you could?’ Ushoran said, glowering.

‘I chose you, didn’t I?’ she said smoothly. The flattery did not go unnoticed. Ushoran stiffened, his eyes alight with speculation. She could almost hear the thoughts rattling through his head: Can I trust her? Is this some gambit? Why? Why?

‘I am tired of the wilderness, Ushoran. I would rule again, even if it is at your side,’ she said, bowing her head. ‘Make me your Lady of Mysteries, if Masks are no longer to your liking.’

Ushoran laughed. The sound started as a low purr that burst out as a rumbling growl. ‘Strezyk might have something to say about that, eh, Strezyk?’

Strezyk’s mace caught her in the hip. Bone crunched and she nearly fell. Abhorash cried out, but Ushoran lunged to his feet and grabbed him. Neferata snapped upright and slapped Strezyk off his feet. The Strigoi slid across the stone floor and scattered nobles who hopped awkwardly aside. He struck a column and lay for a moment, panting. Neferata tested her hip and then faced him, her features lit with a predatory fury.

Strezyk rose, mace in hand, his own face twisting into something bestial. With a growl, he charged forwards, his weapon clasped in both hands, its head trailing behind him. Neferata lunged to meet him. She slid, ducking under his wild swing. Her claws dug into his belly, releasing a spray of sour black fluid. He screamed and gave her a glancing blow on the side of her head. Stunned, she awkwardly dodged his next blow.

His mace thudded down again, cracking stone. Strezyk was strong and fast, like all vampires. But as she had noted with Vorag, he had no idea of his true potential. He saw power only in terms of his human frame. Neferata had evolved beyond such preconceptions.

She had been the first of them. And she was stronger than any pale shadow that had come after. The mace dropped towards her head again and she caught it, her fingers squeezing the stone head so hard it cracked.

Caught up as he was in a berserk fury, he jerked at the weapon and kicked at her belly, trying to dislodge her. She slapped a hand to his leg and swung him into the air, hurling him into the dais hard enough to shatter one of the steps. Strezyk rose with a screech, his head flattening and expanding as hair burst from his pores and his clothes tore. Humps of muscle rippled across his widening frame and the mace looked like a toy in his bulging claw as he came at her again, howling.

She sprang past him, her claws leaving red trails across his hide. He spun, but she was faster. Like a cyclone of teeth and claws, she leapt and circled him, cutting him to pieces bit by bit. Soon he was gasping and the floor of the hall was slick with his blood. His fangs gnashed and he stumbled. In contrast, Neferata felt nothing – neither exhaustion nor even the slightest hint of fatigue. She circled him like some great cat of the veldt waiting for its chosen prey to give in, lie down, and accept death.

No vampire, even one as pathetic as Strezyk, would do that, of course. Persistence was built into them. When the last living breath fled, a will to persist like that possessed by no mortal creature filled them in its place. They could not surrender to death, not willingly.

Neferata stopped. Strezyk’s eyes had gone half-mad and feral and the grave-stink rolled off him in waves. There was something tainted in Ushoran’s blood, some feral weakness it seemed, an inclination to the bestial.

‘Come then,’ she purred, crooking a finger, ‘one last time, Strezyk.’

The mace looped out, and her body became as mist, swirling and coiling up his arm as he gaped in shock. The mist seeped into his flattened, triangular nose and open fang-filled mouth and red eyes and hair-choked pores. Strezyk dropped his weapon and clawed at himself as he staggered back. He opened great canyons in his own flesh, trying to dig her out, but to no avail. Strange bulges began to form on his body, like flowers seeking the sun, and he groaned. His tongue and eyes protruded grotesquely as his body began to shake. He made a strangled sound and then gave an agonised scream as he abruptly burst in a shower of gore. Men and women screamed and there was a stampede to the doors as the ruin of Strezyk tottered a few steps and fell at the foot of the dais.

Silence fell on the hall as Neferata stepped out of the ruins of the former major-domo, picking her way delicately over the lumps of quivering meat and bone that littered the steps. Blood drenched her, turning her pale skin the colour of rust. She gazed up at Ushoran and licked her lips. She held his gaze for a moment. Then she dropped to one knee, spread her arms and bowed her head.

‘My king,’ she said, ‘how may I serve you?’

FIVE

The City of Bel Aliad

(–1152 Imperial Reckoning)

Bel Aliad burned as Neferata led her warriors over the hastily erected barricades. She wore thin black robes and a voluminous hood and scarf to hide her from the sun, and light leather armour sewn with hammered copper discs over the former. The horse she rode was a sleek desert stallion, ungelded and almost as savage as its rider. She drummed her heels into its glossy black flanks and it leapt over the fire-pots the defenders had lit without hesitation. Her sword snapped out like a scorpion’s stinger, and a man screamed as she split both a spear and the hands holding it.

She jerked the reins and her horse spun, lashing out with its hooves as she chopped at those defenders who had not retreated at her arrival. Wildcat screams heralded the arrival of her handmaidens. Like her, they rode the pride of the nomad herds and wore flowing black robes and hoods to protect them from the merciless attentions of the sun that played witness to the ensuing slaughter.

‘Drive them back!’ she howled, waving her sword over her head. ‘The city will be ours!’ As she said it, the words burned like bitter poison in her mouth. Bel Aliad, for all of its vaunted splendour, was not Lahmia. It was a shadow of the great tomb-cities of Nehekhara, a sad attempt by the Arabyans to ape their betters.

It was not Lahmia. It was nothing. But it would be hers. If Lahmia was lost to her, then she would have Bel Aliad. She would be a queen again, despite Alcadizzar and despite Nagash. At the thought of his name, a nauseated shudder ran through her. Nagash had demanded her servitude, but she had defied him. Let the others sup from his scraps like the dogs they were. She would make her own way.

She slashed and thrust about her as spears sought her vitals from every corner. The defenders had grown complacent; they had not realised the size of her army. Though W’soran’s attack had scattered many of the tribes, enough had remained to create a force large enough to threaten more than just the trade routes between Bel Aliad and Khemri.

She snarled and sent a man spinning away, his face opened to the bone. She was painfully aware that even this attack served Nagash in some way, preventing any outside aid from reaching Nehekhara in time. She had seen the first few refugees of the Great Plague, and knew that it was without a doubt Nagash’s doing.

Nehekhara was dying, as Lahmia had died. Part of her felt a vicious satisfaction at the thought, but another, more practical part knew that Nagash would not be satisfied with the throne of Khemri. No… the Great Necromancer wanted the world, and he would crush the thrones of the earth beneath his feet to get it.

As an immortal, she had become used to having a wealth of time to contemplate such gambits, but now, time was at a premium. How long would it take her homeland to die? How long until an army of rotting, plague-infested corpses stumbled across the sea of sand and scratched at the walls of the Arabyan caliphates?

If she could take Bel Aliad – and from there the other caliphates – and unify them into a mighty kingdom, then she might be able to stop him. She might be the only one who could. Ordinarily, pitting herself against Nagash would be the last thing on her mind. But her experience in the desert had taught her that there was nowhere to run. Nagash was the wolf at the door of the world.

Then, there was the fact that the Great Necromancer had insulted her. And no man, alive or dead, insulted Neferata and lived.

She would take Araby and her peoples and forge them into a sword to thrust into Nagash’s sour, black heart—

The arrow caught her by surprise, sprouting as if by magic from her thigh. Another slapped home in her chest, nearly wrenching her from her saddle. She looked up. Archers made ready on the sloping rooftops of the buildings nearest the barricades. She gestured with her sword and Naaima kicked her horse into a gallop, leading Rasha and a few others towards the closest of the bowmen. Naaima leapt from her mount to the edge of the roof. Arrows sped towards her and her sword knocked them from the air as she attacked the unprepared archers. Men screamed and died as the other handmaidens followed suit.

Neferata growled in satisfaction. She urged her horse forwards. The defenders were falling back now, though not in an organised fashion, and retreating towards one of the city’s many market squares. Men trampled one another in their haste to escape the attacking tribesmen. Bloodlust stirred in her and she gave herself up to it gladly. She had restrained herself for months now, whetting her appetite for the coming bloodletting. Now she unleashed the pent-up aggression, flogging her horse forwards after the fleeing warriors. She hacked at their backs and upraised limbs, sheathing her arm in a sleeve of red.

She was laughing when the first lance caught her horse in its chest. It squealed and fell, forcing her to dive from the saddle. She sprang to her feet, sword licking out. The armoured Kontoi of Bel Aliad had arrived. The lancers wore robes sewn through with flat iron plates and heavy helmets that covered their faces. Their lances were weighty spears of wood that could bring down even the heaviest horse. They met the nomads in a tangle of metal and flesh, and the Kontoi’s greater mass began to prevail. Neferata found herself buffeted by horses and she leapt upwards, her claws snagging a Kontoi’s armoured coat. She snarled into the man’s helmet and then snapped his neck.

The sword nearly chopped through her arm as the dead man fell away from her. The Kontoi wore a finer coat than the others and brightly coloured silks dangled from his helmet in a rainbow halo. The sword seemed to writhe in his hand like a thing alive, and the sigils inscribed on the blade hurt her eyes. What was this? What was it—?

She fell back as the warrior swung at her again. The blade sizzled as it cut the air and it seemed to shiver. She fell from the horse and slid between its legs. She slashed the warrior’s saddle strap with her claws, sending him crashing to the ground. The square was filled with heaving, stamping horses and men and the sky was growing dark. Night was falling.

She rose, flinging back her hood. The Kontoi scrambled to his feet. He had lost his sword in the fall. With a yell, he dived for it even as she lunged for him, catching it up as she landed on him. She spun him around and hurled him into a wall hard enough to crack the brick. The warrior staggered, but remained standing.

Neferata eyed him warily. Her arm was slow to heal, and black froth collected in the open wound as steam rose from it. It ached abominably. She had been hurt in such a way only once before, when she had faced Alcadizzar before the gates of Lahmia and he had driven a knife into her heart. The sword was something fell and old. It was of foreign design, reminding her of the weapons she had seen in the marketplaces of Cathay, brought from the forges of the lands beyond the Great Bastion. Perhaps it was a daemon weapon of some kind, then. She would have more time to study it after she had torn it from the dead hands of its current wielder.

She stood up straight and stalked slowly towards him. ‘You fight well, warrior,’ she said, extending a hand. ‘Tell me your name, won’t you?’

The man hesitated. Her eyes caught his, holding them. She pressed her will down the length of the distance between them, hammering his. Slowly, almost grudgingly, he pulled his helmet off and tossed it aside, revealing a handsome, hawkish face. He was young. ‘I am Khaled al Muntasir, witch, and I am your death!’ he said, raising the sword. The blade shook ever so slightly, straining towards her like a dog on a leash. Khaled was sweating from more than just exertion. She could taste his fear, not just of her, but also of the weapon he held.

‘If you fear it so much, why not lay it aside, Khaled al Muntasir?’ she said. Her voice caressed him, piercing his mind and soul. She could do much with her voice. It had allowed her to conquer without raising a single weapon. But it took time to do it properly, and time was something she did not have. She reached out towards Khaled. ‘Put the blade down, boy,’ she purred, letting the soft tones envelop him. ‘Put it down…’

He blinked and trembled. She was impressed. His resistance was remarkable. Then, perhaps that was the influence of the sword. She would have to learn where he had obtained it. Such a potent weapon might be useful in the coming days—

He lashed out. She narrowly stepped aside and hissed as she felt the foul heat clinging to the blade. She slashed him across the face and he cried out. She grabbed his sword hand and pushed the blade away. Her other hand found his throat and forced him back against the wall. She looked into his eyes, flattening his will beneath her own. The sword was loose in his grip. She made to shake his arm, but a shout stopped her before she could.

‘Neferata, look out!’ Naaima screamed from somewhere above.

Neferata spun, only to catch a lance full in the chest. She was slammed backwards into the wall. A scream burst out of her as the lance buried itself in her ribcage and burst out through her back, pinning her to the wall. Her screams pealed wildly as she thrashed and struggled like a bug caught on a pin. She clawed at the wood desperately. Her feet were too far above the ground and her mind was too disordered by the pain to effect a shape-change.

Khaled chopped down on the lance. He shattered it, but she was still pinned. Coughing, blood and foam running down her front, she reached for him. Horror in his eyes, he stepped back and readied the sword. It made a hungry sound as it pierced her heart.

It was only as the darkness closed in that she saw the hand that had wielded the lance that had pinned her. She carried Abhorash’s frown down into the dark with her…

The City of Mourkain

(–800 Imperial Reckoning)

‘It was risky,’ Naaima said, sipping delicately out of a cup. ‘You are far too incautious, Neferata. He would have been well within his rights to have killed you. Abhorash—’

Neferata made a dismissive gesture. ‘Abhorash is still my strong right hand, whether he knows it or not. His sense of honour is a trap none of us can escape.’ She sipped from her own cup and looked around the apartment she had been given. It had once belonged to Strezyk, and was now hers by right of conquest. Apparently such was quite common in Mourkain, among the most rambunctious of the city’s aristocracy.

It was located in one of the larger buildings of the city, a tower that was almost beautiful after a fashion, and through its great window the diverse and myriad smells of Mourkain infiltrated the chambers. Braziers of burning incense hid the stink of blood which emanated from the upside down, barely-alive figure dangling from one of the many hooks dangling from the ceiling.

He was a criminal, she had been told. It was Ushoran’s practice to feed only from those accused of crimes, or from prisoners of war, a standard he held his followers to. Privately, Neferata thought it wise; nothing irritated a populace more than indiscriminate murder. She had learned that to her cost in Bel Aliad.

‘My lady, we’ve rounded them all up at last,’ Khaled said.

‘Speak of the beast,’ she murmured. Then, louder, she said, ‘How many?’

‘Six, my lady,’ Anmar said, flopping down on one of the great cushions which lay scattered across the floor of the chamber. ‘Not a fighter in the bunch. And one step above the great apes of Ind as far as brains go,’ she added with a snort.

‘Such sharp fangs, my little leopard,’ Neferata said, rising from her own cushions. ‘Intelligence and fighting ability can be taught. And if not, well…’

Khaled smiled. ‘Well indeed, my lady. Strezyk had good taste as far as looks went.’

Neferata frowned. ‘Careful, Khaled, your more unpleasant proclivities are showing. It is not a look which suits you.’ She gestured imperiously. ‘Bring them in.’

‘What are you planning, if not to stock our larder?’ Naaima said.

‘I am planning to see that others stock it for us,’ Neferata said. ‘We need friends. Strezyk took the pick of the booty when it came to certain prisoners of war, something which won him no allies in Ushoran’s little newborn snake-pit. We will not make the same mistake.’

Khaled brought the women in. They huddled together, stinking of fear. Barely-healed bite marks covered their arms and thighs and Neferata repressed a hiss of disgust. Strezyk had been a cruel master, that much was certain. And while cruelty had its place, practised on the helpless it was mere sadism, and as such worthless and, worst of all, pointless. For Neferata, cruelty was the tip of the blade you twisted to force action. To practise it on wretches like these was gross indulgence. Once again she reflected that Strezyk was no loss.

The women were as beautiful as Khaled had said. They were former barbarian princesses, the daughters, young wives and cousins of conquered chieftains and warlords. But the haughtiness had been beaten out of them, and at least one had been bled almost white. Broken in body and mind, Ushoran probably expected her to drain them and throw them away.