dead wyverns. ‘Such heroism puts even mighty Abhorash to shame.’
‘Speaking of heroes, where is your master? Cowering in the dark while the rest of us defend his hideaway?’ Neferata said, using the tip of her sword to pull the edge of Melkhior’s hood away from his face. The vampire jerked back.
‘He is above such petty concerns as mere warfare,’ Melkhior said.
‘Yes. So he has said on numerous occasions. What is it he is not above, I wonder,’ she said, frowning. She traced the bloated sack of Melkhior’s cheek with the sword tip.
‘Ask him yourself,’ Ushoran said.
Neferata turned and looked up at the palisade as Melkhior scurried away. Ushoran gestured sharply, as if to a dog. ‘Come, my Lady of Mysteries. Your king requires your counsel.’
Neferata sheathed her sword without flourish. She refused to give Ushoran the satisfaction of reacting publically to his needling. She and Anmar stepped through the broken section of the palisade. The third wyvern lay there, gutted and cooling. Spears and arrows sprouted from every inch of its body and its rider lay in several pieces some distance away. Anmar preened slightly as they stepped over the orc’s head, which still had a surprised look on its face.
‘Well done, little leopard,’ Neferata murmured as they joined the others.
‘I live but to serve, my lady,’ Anmar said.
‘If only all of my servants were so accommodating,’ Neferata said. Anmar made a face.
‘He’s only doing as you asked, my lady,’ she said diplomatically. ‘As he always does,’ she added.
‘Do you think I’m too hard on him, my child?’
Anmar paused, sensing the danger in her mistress’s tone. ‘I think he is devoted to you. We all are.’
‘Devotion is no substitute for obedience. And your brother is anything but obedient. See that you do not follow his example, little leopard,’ Neferata said, without looking at Anmar. She left the other woman standing there as she joined Ushoran’s entourage.
Mourkain had weathered the orc attack as it always had. The palisades which covered the lower slopes and approaches took the brunt of any attack. Only occasionally, when the brutes gathered the sense to hurl some form of flying beast, like the wyverns of lamentable memory, at the city, did Mourkain itself suffer from battle.
Still, there were other ways to suffer. Fresh water was easy enough to come by, but food was almost impossible to grow in these high reaches. Thin, pinched faces filled the streets as Ushoran’s panoply rode into the city. Rationing had been instituted early on, and with the coming of the Waaagh! food supplies had been limited to what could be brought in between assaults.
W’soran was waiting for them in the council chambers of the black pyramid, alongside another of his apprentices, the Strigoi nobleman Morath. The latter gave her a sickly grin. She felt some small pang of sympathy for the mortal – or not so mortal perhaps, considering that he had unnaturally lengthened his own span, albeit not in the usual fashion.
Morath was unusual. The only breathing man in the room, the Strigoi was slim, with the look of a poet, rather than a warrior. He was as dangerous as any member of the Strigoi nobility, however, having been schooled in the arts of blade and bow since childhood. If he lacked Vorag’s obvious muscle, he more than made up for it with a subtlety of wit that Neferata found refreshing. He was perhaps the only civilised man in Mourkain. It was a shame that he had been pledged to W’soran’s service by Ushoran. Then, that was perhaps one of the few intelligent decisions that his majesty had made. Ushoran knew that W’soran couldn’t be trusted, and that it was only a matter of time before he vanished or tried something, and left Strigos bereft of his magics.
But Morath, above all else, was loyal to Strigos; the ideal, if not the men who made it. He sat near his master, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Neferata could understand that as well. W’soran grew more inhuman-looking every year, with pronounced bat-like ears and a face out of nightmare. Thin, gangly arms protruded from the too-tattered sleeves of his robes, clutching tight to a messy pile of parchment, which he thrust at Ushoran as the latter entered the room. Ushoran scanned the parchment and grunted.
Shoving it back into W’soran’s hands, he said, ‘Abhorash, the map.’ Abhorash unrolled a large bear-hide. On the opposite side from the fur, a great map had been inked in painstaking and impressive detail. ‘Cartography is a rare skill,