Josh Reynolds - Neferata

The giant slumped over the palisade, and Abhorash, ever at the forefront, bounded towards the orcs that swarmed up its bent body like ants. He crashed into the oncoming green wave like a rock set against the tide. An orc burst at the point of impact, Abhorash literally tearing through the creature as if it were of no more bother than a linen curtain. Other orcs were flung aside like gnats. Abhorash grabbed one as it flipped into the air, snatching it by one ankle and wielding it like a living, screaming flail against the others. Only when the creature had been reduced to a bedraggled mess did he toss it aside and continue his rampage.

‘He plays the part well, whatever else he might be,’ Naaima said, snapping an orc’s arm as it swung an axe at her head. Like Neferata, she wore the black and red enamelled armour that Ushoran’s smiths had gifted to them. It was far more ornate than that which they had worn in Nehekhara, being all flaring ridges and sharp edges. ‘And speaking of playing parts, Khaled ably defends Ushoran, I see,’ she added, frowning as she bent the orc backwards over the palisade and broke its back.

‘He is magnificent,’ Anmar said, leaping up to perch on the palisade wall even as she kicked an orc in the skull hard enough to crumple the bone and send it flailing to the rocky slope below.

‘Referring to your brother or Lord Abhorash, little leopard?’ Rasha said as she stabbed a wounded orc as it lunged awkwardly for the other vampire. She hefted the kicking, bawling beast and sent it spinning from the palisade.

‘Both,’ Anmar said simply, craning her head around to look at her blood-sister. ‘Do not say you have not noticed,’ she added, teasingly.

‘Not my type,’ Rasha said, sniffing, leaning on her blade. She brushed a lock of bloody hair out of her sharp face and looked at her mistress. ‘Still, he is useful, in a rather blunt, unimaginative way, eh, my lady?’

‘Sometimes a hammer is the right tool,’ Neferata said. Down below, Abhorash had been joined by his ‘Hand’ — the four companions who had fought beside him since the fall of Lahmia. The four vampires were an aloof lot, bound to their captain by blood and honour. Regardless, they fought for Strigos with a vigour that few could match. Together, the five vampires carved a path through the heart of the orc horde, butchering the savages with abandon.

‘Speaking of hammers,’ Neferata murmured and looked away from the battle, searching for Vorag. The Bloodytooth was not at the forefront, as he would’ve liked. Instead, he and his riders waited behind the palisade. It was Abhorash’s plan, of course. Wait for the orcs to break themselves on the palisade and then let Vorag’s riders harry them as they retreated. It was an effective plan, and sensible, which meant that Vorag saw it as an insult.

She had convinced Ushoran to recall the timagal, despite the fact that Vorag’s own lands were the scene of the harshest fighting. Ushoran even thought it was his idea. Vorag had been forced to leave his hard-won territories to be engulfed beneath the green tide, and Neferata could tell that he was seething even from a distance. And beside him, blonde and bloodthirsty, Stregga was whispering sweet nothings into his ear, calming him and simultaneously enflaming his hatreds even more. Neferata smiled.

She carefully wiped the expression off her face as the thud of armoured boots sounded and Ushoran approached, mopping at the blood on his too-handsome face with a ragged strip of cloth. ‘They’re close to breaking,’ Neferata said.

‘You had doubts?’ Ushoran sneered. Orc blood had collected and dried in the grooves and swooping curves of his armour. ‘They are beasts. We have more trouble with rats in the granaries.’

‘Overconfidence is an attractive trait in a man, but not a ruler,’ Neferata said mildly, resting the flat of her blade across her shoulder.

‘And as always, I bow to your previous experience,’ Ushoran replied blandly. He frowned. ‘I grow tired of this. We should be expanding, not merely holding what we have.’ He kicked petulantly at a green-skinned corpse. ‘I want to do something about this, about them.’ He looked at Neferata. ‘Do something. Earn your keep.’

Neferata raised a delicately plucked eyebrow. ‘I’ll need men and gold, as well.’

‘Yes, fine! Fine,’ Ushoran said, waving a hand. ‘You can have it all. I grow weary of slaughtering these creatures. I need a real war. And prisoners…’ His eyes were unfocused and his gaze drifted towards the black pyramid. ‘Yes,’ he said, shaking himself, ‘prisoners.’

It was only a gentle caress, but Neferata knew that Ushoran was hearing the needle-on-bone voice again, even as she herself sometimes heard it. It spoke to him more often, and she was still unsure as to whether she should be relieved or jealous.

You could be queen again. You could belong to Usirian, and not the jealous moon. Your charnel kingdom would spread like rot through a fruit, and the whole world would sing hymns to your wisdoms and mercies—

Ushoran was looking at her, his eyes glowing like balefire. She blinked and looked away. Whether she was jealous or not, Ushoran certainly was. Why else would he avoid all of her attempts to discuss the presence which had drawn her to Mourkain? He knew that she heard it, even as she knew that he heard it. Abhorash heard it as well, and probably W’soran, though she hadn’t cared enough to inquire. It was a mystery, and Neferata hated mysteries. Ushoran had the key, and one way or another she intended to get it out of him.

Now wasn’t the time to bring that argument up again, however. ‘A real war requires participants. And the orcs have succeeded in putting paid to the ambitions of every petty chieftain for two mountain ranges,’ Neferata said, attempting to allay suspicion with speculation.

‘What of it?’ Ushoran said.

‘Those chieftains might be willing to do our work for us,’ Khaled said, from just behind Ushoran. The latter glanced at him. ‘Let the savages tear each other apart. It saves us the trouble, my king,’ he added, bowing obsequiously.

‘I see now why you kept him around,’ Ushoran said, smiling broadly. He glanced slyly at Neferata. ‘He has a good head for war.’

‘Yes,’ Neferata said, meeting Khaled’s eyes over Ushoran’s shoulder. Don’t get too comfortable, my Kontoi, she thought, remember whose dog you truly are. If Khaled understood the meaning of the look, he gave no sign. Horns blew as the Bloodytooth’s riders shot out through the open palisade to harry the orcs. Ushoran watched them go and grunted.

‘Once Vorag has had his fun, we will hold council. There are plans to be made.’

‘Oh yes, I quite agree,’ Neferata said, as some strange sensation prickled at the edge of her consciousness. Suddenly, a shadow fell across the palisade. No, several shadows.

Perhaps the orcs weren’t quite as beaten as she had thought.

Neferata spun as a raucous screech blistered the air. A wyvern crashed into the palisade, bat-like wings folding in and crooked talons flattening several Strigoi. A long serpentine neck shot out and jaws snapped shut on the arm of the warrior next to Ushoran.

Crouching atop the elephantine beast’s squat body, a large orc, clad in scraps of salvaged armour, thrust a spear at the King of Strigos. He bore the war-paint of a warlord, and by his ornate headdress of animal skins, jutting fangs and golden trinkets, she judged him to be the current overlord of the horde.

The spear, for all its crudity of design, pierced Ushoran’s armour with ease, thanks to the raw muscle behind the thrust. Ushoran staggered as the spear pierced his side and nailed him to the palisade, his mask of beauty slipping for a moment to reveal the beast beneath. Khaled sprang to Ushoran’s aid with an alacrity that Neferata found somewhat disappointing. He grabbed the spear and tried to pull it loose, even as the wyvern snapped at him.