Josh Reynolds - Neferata

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.

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 towards the sky.

Her first impression was one of age. Something had always been in this place, whether its name was Mourkain or not. It was a city in the same way that Lahmia had been, grown over centuries by generations, spreading first behind the river and then over it. Within the palisade, a great stone gateway rose, blocking access to a wide bridge of thick wooden logs that led to a second, smaller gate. Beneath the bridge, the river crashed and snarled, and even at this distance, she could feel the spray. She looked up at the first gate and saw that its bulk was punctuated by hundreds of alcoves packed with skulls. Some of the skulls were brown with age, while others glistened white and clean. Each of the skulls seemed to be looking at her and she recalled her first sight of the place, under the influence of whatever had called her here, and felt a chill caress her spine.

Neferata knew that Mourkain, for all that it might seem to be a living thing, was in truth a city of death.

With a squeal of fibre on stone, the stone gates swung outwards. As they opened, Neferata saw a network of thick ropes connecting the hinges of the outer gate to the inner, and felt a brief burst of admiration. The outer gates could be controlled from within the city proper, as long as the ropes held. And if the ropes were cut, the stone gates would remain closed and the bridge sealed off.

She brought her horse to a halt and let the column move past her onto the bridge, until the stumping form of Razek came abreast of her horse. The dwarf’s powers of recuperation had proven far more impressive than she had anticipated. The bleeding had stopped a few days earlier and scabbing had begun, and the wounds smelled clean. Privately, she was impressed with the dwarf’s constitution. A human would have died from the wounds he had taken, but Razek was on his feet within a few days of the mauling, and had insisted on walking. She looked down at the dwarf. ‘I believe we have arrived,’ she said.

‘Aye. Impressive, isn’t it?’ Razek said, his tone indicating that he thought it was anything but.

‘Yes,’ Neferata said. She kept her horse to a trot, so that she could keep pace with the dwarf. If he noticed the courtesy, he gave no sign. Then, he could have viewed it as an insult. They moved across the bridge, and she glanced down, at the river. It was no small thing, and seemed far deeper than she was used to.

‘It goes down as deep as the mountain’s roots,’ Razek said. ‘Dark things swim in it.’

They passed beneath the interior gate, and Neferata’s nostrils flared. The smells of the city were intoxicating after so long in the wilderness. Thousands of warm, beating hearts greeted her, pumping the hot richness of human blood, and she sucked in a breath. ‘How many live here?’ she hissed. There were merchants stalls set up along the interior wall and the crumbling lean-tos of the kmut — the poor dregs of the city. Harsh accents barked offers to the teeming throngs and a wave of sound seemed to envelop her, as she was reminded of her youth and the days when she would sneak from her father’s palace and mingle among the commoners on the docks, watching the great ships slide in on the tide.

‘Who can say?’ Razek said. ‘You humans breed like lice.’ He grunted, looking around. ‘It’s been a long time, as you manlings calculate it, since I’ve been here. Since any of my people have been here.’

‘And with good reason, Thane Silverfoot,’ a harsh voice said. ‘But things are different now. You have our most humble assurances.’

Neferata turned. A broad-shouldered, broken-nosed man trotted towards them, thumbs hooked into a wide leather belt. He had a number of guards with him, dressed as Abhorash’s men, in heavy armour and ornate helms. They pushed through the crowd like sharks through a school of fish. Neferata inhaled his scent and repressed an instinctive curl of her lip. Like Vorag, there was a grave-mould whiff to the newcomer. It was a deep stink that Razek either didn’t notice or, perhaps, put down to a more human stench.