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