Josh Reynolds - Neferata

And the command was in Nehekharan.

Not true Nehekharan, but a debased cousin, a garbled brute-tongue that perhaps shared an ancient root with the language of home. Neferata hissed in satisfaction. It had been more than a century since Nehekhara had truly become a land of the dead. Had some of her people managed to escape the Great Dying?

Was that what this Mourkain was? Some last remnant of her people? Perhaps that was why she was being drawn there. The thought was a heady one: a new kingdom to rule, a new people to mould once more into a great empire.

A rider edged out of the trees. He was a big man, bigger than the others and even paler. His skin was the colour of a fish’s belly and unlike the others he wore no furs, only a cuirass of boiled leather and brass discs, and his muscular arms were bare to the cold. Those arms were covered in looping scars, and a greased scalplock coiled around his neck. A wide, spade-shaped beard flared out from a jutting jaw. There was no light in him, no warmth.

‘Neferata—’ Naaima began.

‘I know,’ Neferata said. He was as dead and as cold as she was, though he was not like her. There was a grave-mould stink to him that offended her nose and she hissed as the stench invaded her nostrils.

The rider was a vampire. And as they recognised him for what he was, he recognised them. Neferata’s nostrils flared and a glint of recognition sparked somewhere deep in her head. The smell of the warrior was familiar, though she had never seen him before. ‘Well… what are you, eh?’ she said loudly.

‘Vorag,’ the warrior barked. ‘Vorag Bloodytooth, witch,’ he continued in his crudely accented Nehekharan. ‘Champion of Strigos,’ he bellowed, thumping his chest with a fist.

Neferata blinked. She asked, ‘Strigos — not Mourkain?’

Vorag cocked his head. He glanced towards the litter and Razek, his eyes narrowing. He seemed to recognise the dwarf. ‘Who are you to speak of Mourkain? You are a barbarian.’ He gestured to her furs.

Neferata laughed. ‘No, I’m no barbarian.’

Vorag’s face tightened. Here is one who doesn’t like the sound of laughter, especially when it’s directed at him , Neferata thought. ‘Then what are you?’ he barked.

‘A question I might put to you as well,’ she said.

Vorag grunted and slid off his horse. He stalked towards them, looking them over. ‘I told you. I am champion of Strigos. These lands are mine, given me by right of battle, as a gift. These beasts are mine to hunt and kill.’ He snapped his teeth together on the last word. Almost casually, he grabbed the limp arm of one of the dead creatures and wrenched it from the socket. He upended the shoulder stump over his mouth and greedily gulped the sluggish flow of brackish blood. He seemed to enjoy it. Neferata lowered her opinion of him accordingly.

His men, however, interested her more than their disgusting master. He stood in full view of them, openly feeding. Either they were so barbaric as to not be particularly squeamish or they knew full well what Vorag was. The latter suggested interesting times ahead. In Lahmia, they had hidden their secret, though not, in the end, well. But out here, with no civilised allies to placate, there was no need.

Finished with the stump, Vorag tossed it aside and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I have answered your question, woman. Now answer mine — what are you?’

‘A queen,’ Neferata said.

Vorag snorted. ‘There are queens aplenty in the wild lands. Every chieftain’s woman is a queen, to hear her tell it,’ he said. ‘And that’s not what I meant. Whose blood-doxy are you? Are you Strezyk’s maybe, or that fool Gashnag’s? Who do you belong to?’

Neferata darted forwards. Her face was inches from Vorag’s before his sword could as much as twitch. ‘I am no man’s woman,’ she said. ‘I am Neferata of Lahmia, Vorag Bloodytooth. I am queen of our kind, little blood-drinker. If you bow to me, I will forgive this insult and I will not make your bones into combs for my hair.’

Vorag’s eyes widened in shock, either at her speed or at her threat, and he inadvertently stepped back. A moment later, he roared and swung his sword up over his head.

The raiders pushed their horses hard beneath the moon’s idiot gaze. Sand made blue by the moonlight puffed and blew as the horses — famed for their stamina and stride — pounded along the bandit-road. Behind them, the caravan burned.

In a wagon swiftly being consumed by hungry flames, Neferata rose and pushed the collapsing canopy of the wagon aside with a growl of frustration. Naaima lay unmoving on the ground outside, an arrow jutting from between her breasts. Neferata knew that a simple arrow would do nothing worse to one of their kind than render them immobile but even so, the sight of her handmaiden in such a state drove her into a rage.

It had been nothing more than a lucky shot. But now the dogs of the desert were riding away, her treasures in their saddlebags. Gold and silver from Lahmia and the lands of the Dragon-Emperor, the wealth of ages, intended for greater things than being bartered for a drudge in some desert-rat’s tent. Neferata snarled again and ripped an arrow from her shoulder, flinging it aside. She dropped down beside Naaima and plucked the arrow from her chest. Naaima’s mouth opened and a rattling shriek escaped her lips as she sat up, eyes wild.

Neferata helped her to her feet and brushed a lock of bloody hair from her eyes. ‘Can you walk?’ she said.

‘Y-yes,’ Naaima rasped, rubbing the already closing wound with trembling fingers.

‘Then you can run,’ Neferata said, spinning and sprinting in the direction the raiders had taken. After a moment’s hesitation, Naaima followed. The two women ran swiftly, more swiftly than any mortal being, and soon enough the horses came into sight. Neferata shrieked hungrily and leapt onto a horse’s flank, her claws sinking into the animal’s haunch. It squealed in fear and pain as Neferata swung up onto it like a lioness and pounced on the rider. She tore aside his scarf and headdress and sank her fangs into his throat, cutting off his scream. Sliding into a sitting position behind him, she ripped and chewed at the flesh of his throat, swallowing hot mouthfuls of pumping blood as she snatched the reins from his hand.

Naaima loped past, her jaws gaping, her delicate features stretching into something inhuman. A rider turned back and gave a yell as the vampire flung herself at him from a sand dune. She snatched him off his horse and hurled him to the ground, falling on him like a bird of prey. Neferata rode past and let the body of her victim tumble from his saddle.

She urged the horse on, conserving her own strength. The other raiders were pulling around, only just now realising that they had been pursued. Saddlebags bulged with ill-gotten loot. She rose in the saddle, letting the moonlight catch her bestial features. Men froze, hands quivering inches from sword hilts or bows. Her hair flared around her like a black halo and her jaws gaped wide, her tongue writhing in a nest of fangs. Eyes like hell-lamps blazed as she crashed among them, releasing the reins to stretch her hands out. Almost gently, her fingers played across the chests of the first two men, crushing them at the instant of impact and bursting their hearts in their breasts.

An arrow cut across her arm and she leapt from the saddle, bearing another rider to the desert. The archer fired again, skilfully controlling his horse with his knees. Neferata crouched over her kill, hissing as another arrow sank into her thigh.