‘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