herself into Neferata’s schemes with admirable abandon. For Khaled, Bel Aliad had been a kingdom to be won. For his sister, however, it had been little more than a cage.
Neferata led her followers towards the shisha house. Men sat on reed mats outside of it, inhaling sweetly scented smoke from a waterpipe. Anmar sat on a similar mat within, wearing a bright crimson robe. She looked up as they entered and laid a hand on the arm of the woman who crouched nervously beside her. The woman was a slave, and pale-skinned like the barbarian tribes who inhabited the far north. ‘My lady,’ Anmar said. ‘The ship is ready whenever we are.’
Neferata nodded and glanced at the slave, who trembled and turned away. The woman stank of fear. Anmar gently stroked her neck, calming her. ‘Ilsa here is a servant of the Dowager Concubine, aren’t you, Ilsa?’ Anmar said softly. The young vampire’s eyes glinted. ‘She has agreed to your offer, mistress, and has sent Ilsa as a gift. The girl speaks the language of Sartosa. The Dowager thought she might translate for us upon our arrival.’
Neferata smiled beneath her veil. Though she was leaving Araby for greener pastures, her influence would remain. The Dowager Concubine was the ruler of the Corsair City in all but name, and with her protection, Neferata’s servants would flourish. When she had re-settled herself, she would re-establish her influence in the caliphates for as long as they stood.
She knelt and reached out, taking the terrified slave-girl’s chin. Neferata smiled and held the girl’s gaze, soothing her and mesmerising her. ‘I’m sure that she will come in handy in one fashion or another,’ she murmured…
Nagashizzar
(–328 Imperial Reckoning)
The air stank of rot and swamp gas, and scavenger birds spun through the overcast sky. There was no sun in these lands, and there hadn’t been for hundreds of years. In the Desolation of Nagash, it was always grey and dark and foul, a reflection of its creator’s soul. Nagashizzar was a twisted blend of mountain and fortress, and it loomed above the dead land like a monolith to a forgotten god.
It had taken them the better part of a year to reach the shores of the Sour Sea from Mourkain, and Neferata climbed swiftly, ignoring the tiny avalanches her movement set loose. Her patience had worn thin over the months of journeying and she was eager to reach her goal. The others followed at some distance. Ahead of her, Layla moved with inhuman grace, leaping and climbing, marking the safe path. ‘I smell ghouls,’ the girl called back.
‘These mountains are filthy with them,’ Morath said from below. The necromancer climbed slowly and cautiously, lacking the grace of his protectors. ‘There are thousands of warrens in these hills, thanks to Nagash.’
‘I would have thought that they’d have left,’ Rasha said, helping Morath climb. ‘When he died, I mean.’
‘Where would they go?’ Morath said. ‘When they were human, before Nagash corrupted them, Cripple Peak was their home. That ancestral memory keeps them here, lurking in the blighted shadow of Nagashizzar.’
‘The question is not their presence, but their intentions. I would not fight unless we have no choice,’ Neferata said, stopping to wait for the others to catch up. ‘This journey has taken up too much time as it is.’
‘It may take even longer, I fear,’ Morath said, leaning on his walking stick. He looked bad, cadaverous even, as if his human vitality were being leached away by their surroundings and replaced by something else. ‘Nagashizzar is massive, according to W’soran. It may be months before we find a safe way inside, let alone find that which we seek.’
‘Which is?’ Layla said, dropping down to perch bird-like above Neferata.
‘You should listen more than you natter, girl,’ Rasha said.
Layla stuck her tongue out between her fangs. Neferata chuckled. She reached up to yank on the braid of hair that dangled from the girl’s head. ‘We seek one of the Books of Nagash, child. One that W’soran seems certain is still hidden somewhere in this stinking pile.’
‘Implying it’s one that the old thief didn’t manage to steal when he fled,’ Rasha said.
‘There were nine of them,’ Morath said, looking up towards the high towers of Nagashizzar, shrouded in grey mist. ‘Nine books in all, comprising all of Nagash’s knowledge on the subject of death.’ Morath raised a hand. ‘W’soran stole one, as did Arkhan the Black. The other seven, however…’ He gestured limply. For more than two decades, Neferata had aided the