Josh Reynolds - Neferata

‘Who was he, Ushoran?’ she said.

‘Can you feel it, Neferata?’ he said, ignoring her question as they reached the end of the corridor.

‘What is it?’ she said, shivering. There was a vibration in her bones. It echoed from the floor and the walls and ceiling, and it was as if she were inside some great, living organism.

‘The echo of a heartbeat,’ Ushoran said, not looking at her.

Neferata listened, and knew he was right. The thudding boom-boom-boom , echoing up from untold depths and seeping through the stone, had the regular rhythms of a man’s heartbeat. Steady, strong… familiar. ‘No,’ she said as the sound caressed her ears.

Ushoran turned, his face twisted in a sneer. ‘Yes. Listen to it, Neferata. Do you hear it? Do you hear his heart? Does it beat faster?’ He made to grab her and she slithered back instinctively, out of his reach. ‘Do you hear him?’

The air became cold and sluggish and damp. Neferata swiped instinctively at it, as if it were full of cobwebs. A hand grabbed her wrist, but dissolved into curling wisps of mist as she spun. Words bled through the rock, snippets of past conversations.

‘Damn you, Ushoran, who is buried here?’ she snapped.

‘You did this,’ Ushoran said. ‘You made him this way!’

Neferata turned around and around as half-formed faces made to speak and dissolved in a silent storm surrounding her. All familiar, though they spanned swathes of time she had not been there to see. The faces were of a child, a boy, a man and — what? — a corpse or a wraith or wight? Regardless, he was a king.

Alcadizzar, the boy she had raised as her own. The man she had groomed to be king and the king who had died for Nehekhara. Neferata hissed and spat as the smoky fingers drifted across hers in a gesture at once familiar and abominable. ‘Away, wraith,’ she said, swiping her claws through the wisps.

‘Mourkain is built on his bones,’ Ushoran snarled, lunging through the mist. He grabbed her wrists and his human façade rippled and tore like wet papyrus, revealing the horror beneath. Grey dead flesh over an ape’s skull, with a thicket of fangs spilling from a lipless mouth. Eyes like the embers of a dying fire glared at her as he tried to pull her close.

‘W’soran cannot break his hold over the crown! And without the crown I cannot truly be king! But you — maybe you…’

Neferata bent and brought the soles of her feet sliding up between them. Catching Ushoran in the belly, she tore him loose and sent him flying back. He hit the rock and screamed, as if it burned him. She rose. The floor felt warm beneath her feet. She smelled the hiss of cooking meat and, a moment later, felt the pain.

She was burning, even as Lahmia had burned, as Khemri and Zandri had burned, at Nagash’s command. Alcadizzar whipped her with a lash of fire and regret and she screamed in agony. Ushoran, driven berserk by pain, roared and charged and his massive talons nearly took her head off. She ducked and he cut a gouge in the rock face. She cut through his belly and chest and his growls became screams as she opened him to the spine. He fell and writhed on the ground, his skin bubbling and rupturing. Turning, she began to run even as the heat ate into her own limbs. She had to escape this place. Her feet were burned raw and an agony she hadn’t felt since that first night of her new existence raced over her nerves, eating at them like acid. Still, she stumbled on, trying to escape the embrace of the tunnel. If she could get to the main chamber, perhaps the pain would stop. That was all she could think about.

She could hear Ushoran following her, his claws scraping stone. The corridor felt as if it was closing like a fist around her and the needle-on-bone voice of the crown was drowned out by the grim rumble of stone and the echoes of Alcadizzar’s voice as it thrummed through her mind, evoking ancient memories and ancient pain.

She burst out of the tunnel like a bat from the depths, flames wreathing her slender shape. She screamed, and there was nothing human in her voice. Ushoran caught her in mid-air, his grotesque gargoyle shape having sprouted wings. He too was on fire and the flames congealed greedily as his talons sought her throat. Maddened by pain and need, the two vampires crashed down onto the floor.

Her hair crisped and crackled like cloth in a cooking fire and her face split and shrank against her bones as she sank her fangs into Ushoran’s throat. He howled and bucked, pummelling her with burning fists. They thrashed and fought, rolling across the floor. She worried the flesh of his throat, the blood boiling from the heat even as it reached her mouth.

‘Off — get off,’ he yowled, muscles heaving beneath his charred skin as he slapped her aside. She spun through the air and struck the wall, dropping bonelessly to the floor. The flames winked out, leaving them both blackened wrecks. Neferata cracked a crisped eyelid.

More of the obese ghoul-things had come into the chamber while she had been gone, and not just them. Smaller ghouls and the dead men who served W’soran as his guard filled the hall, surrounding her followers.

Stupid. She had been stupid to come here. Ushoran coughed and scrambled to his feet, his charred flesh cracking and sloughing off. He had been burned before and he shook it off with the speed of experience. His claws scraped the floor as he made his way towards her. His previous berserk rage seemed to have left him, and he looked deflated and weary.

‘You see?’ he croaked. ‘Even in death, he denies us our due. The crown is ours by right. With it, we can recreate that which was lost.’

Neferata pushed herself to her feet. The voice of the crown — Nagash’s voice — was back, smashing at her doubts and worries and fears. For an instant, she wondered if this was how others felt when she turned her gaze upon them.

The instant was washed away by visions of a great city, not quite Mourkain or Lahmia, but a blending of both. It was a city of possibilities, a city of could-be and will-be; a city ruled forever by a night-hearted aristocracy, where she would sup on the blood of princes and kings as all the rulers of the world bowed at her sandalled feet, and on her brow, a crown.

Crown and throne, Neferata, it purred. Goddess and queen, Neferata — that is what you will be. All yours…

Did Ushoran hear the same? Did it speak to him in the same soothing tones? Did it make the same promises? Perhaps it had even done so for Kadon.

‘You have done your best to keep me on my throne,’ Ushoran hissed. ‘You have done this even as you have schemed to supplant me in the minds of my subjects. That is why I ask you this now. Help me, Neferata.’ He half-reached for her, with a trembling claw. ‘You want Lahmia back, just as I do, just as Abhorash does, and W’soran.

‘Help me,’ he said again. ‘Help me put the world back to rights, Neferata.’

Take the crown and the throne and the WORLD…

The lessons of the past crumbled in an instant, like the dead flesh which drifted from her burned limbs like black snow. All that was left was desire.

‘As my king commands,’ Neferata said, taking Ushoran’s hand with her own.

Neferata led her handmaidens through the crowded streets of the Corsair City, her robes and cowl pulled close about her, and a veil of hammered gold discs hiding her face from the sun. There was a ship waiting for them in the harbour. It was to take them to Sartosa, across the sea. The streets were full of merchants, mercenaries and refugees, all going in every direction at once. Overhead sea-birds wheeled, croaking, and mangy dogs trotted through the streets.