Josh Reynolds - Neferata

Now, keeping them attacking for close to two centuries had been the trick. Two centuries of constant invasion and retreat had created a massive horde of the beasts — a Waaagh! as they referred to it. As each small wave was destroyed, it had collapsed and been absorbed by the next, creating a perfect storm of bestial violence. With this last attack, she judged that the time would be right for another period of infighting among the various tribal remnants, especially with the current warboss and shaman dead; others would have to be chosen.

‘Rasha,’ she murmured as she looked up at the palisade. Ushoran seemed to have survived and he was occupied with his guards. The slim vampire looked to her mistress, water trickling down her face.

‘Wazzakaz,’ Rasha said, knowing what Neferata wanted.

‘Yes. Go give him a sign, would you?’ Neferata said, tossing the head into the water. Wazzakaz was the next-most prominent of the current crop of orc shamans, and a firm believer in throwing his followers at the holds of their ancient enemies the dwarfs, rather than the pitiful territories of the humans. Now, after this most telling defeat of his current rival, would be the perfect point for Wazzakaz to see an omen which would encourage him to insist that whatever chieftain was listening to him this week press his right to control the Waaagh!

Rasha moved swiftly and departed down the slope, unnoticed by any of the others there. Neferata’s followers had learned much about the arts of stealth over the decades. Then, it wasn’t hard in the aftermath of a battle to move without being noticed, especially considering some of the others up and about. On the nearby slopes, dark cowled and robed figures prowled among the dead. To the people, they were simply the Mortuary Cult. It was a source of supreme amusement to Neferata that W’soran had chosen to co-opt the cult of the liche priests of the Great Land, and dedicate it to gathering the dead for his dark experiments. She climbed out of the river and shook her hair, trying to free herself of the slimy feel of the water.

‘We will reap a great harvest this day,’ a sibilant voice chortled.

Neferata turned. The speaker was draped in heavy robes, but even with the concealing hood, she could tell that his head was overlarge and oddly proportioned. ‘Melkhior,’ she greeted the robed man. ‘Your cloud cover came in handy. You should be commended.’

Melkhior emitted a gurgling laugh. ‘You would be the only one to do so, my lady,’ he said. She caught a glimpse of the face in the hood and repressed a grimace. More bat than human and more corpse than bat, Melkhior was the most senior of W’soran’s ever-growing supply of apprentices. The other vampire had apparently discovered a love of teaching. Thin-limbed and bloat-bellied, Melkhior looked and smelled like a corpse that had been left overlong in the sun. That was natural among W’soran’s students. Melkhior was also a treacherous little worm, if what her spies reported was the truth, having murdered at least three of his rivals for W’soran’s attentions. That too he had learned from W’soran, and Melkhior was nothing if not an apt pupil. ‘And you deserve a commendation as well,’ the apprentice continued, gesturing to the 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, and one I have cultivated among my servants,’ Ushoran said. He swept a hand across a section of the map. ‘Orcs, barbarians and beasts — those are the enemies we face, my friends.’