Josh Reynolds - Neferata

She stopped as a group of soldiers, clad in silks and bronze, marched past in ragged formation, pennons snapping from their spear-points. It galled Neferata to abandon Araby. Bel Aliad was a smoking ruin, thanks to Arkhan, and the other caliphates reeled under his continued assault. Armies of the dead trod the Spice Road, harrying what forces the caliphates could muster, and Araby was no longer a place for patient schemes and subtle machinations. But that did not mean that such would always be the case.

She caught sight of a flash of red. ‘There she is,’ Naaima murmured a moment later, standing behind her mistress. She gestured towards a shisha house on the other side of the street. Naaima and the others were dressed much as Neferata was, all save Khaled, who wore the armour and full-face helm of a Kontoi. Ragged silk strips hung limply from the spiral point that topped his helm and his cloak was ragged and threadbare. His eyes were haunted behind the chainmail mask that covered his face.

The destruction of Bel Aliad had struck him hard. Every desire and dream that he had nurtured to his breast for the past decade had vanished like a wisp of smoke, leaving him empty of either ambition or energy. Anmar was equally shaken, but had chosen not to emulate her brother’s apathy, instead throwing herself into Neferata’s schemes with admirable abandon. For Khaled, Bel Aliad had been a kingdom to be won. For his sister, however, it had been little more than a cage.

Neferata led her followers towards the shisha house. Men sat on reed mats outside of it, inhaling sweetly scented smoke from a waterpipe. Anmar sat on a similar mat within, wearing a bright crimson robe. She looked up as they entered and laid a hand on the arm of the woman who crouched nervously beside her. The woman was a slave, and pale-skinned like the barbarian tribes who inhabited the far north. ‘My lady,’ Anmar said. ‘The ship is ready whenever we are.’

Neferata nodded and glanced at the slave, who trembled and turned away. The woman stank of fear. Anmar gently stroked her neck, calming her. ‘Ilsa here is a servant of the Dowager Concubine, aren’t you, Ilsa?’ Anmar said softly. The young vampire’s eyes glinted. ‘She has agreed to your offer, mistress, and has sent Ilsa as a gift. The girl speaks the language of Sartosa. The Dowager thought she might translate for us upon our arrival.’

Neferata smiled beneath her veil. Though she was leaving Araby for greener pastures, her influence would remain. The Dowager Concubine was the ruler of the Corsair City in all but name, and with her protection, Neferata’s servants would flourish. When she had re-settled herself, she would re-establish her influence in the caliphates for as long as they stood.

She knelt and reached out, taking the terrified slave-girl’s chin. Neferata smiled and held the girl’s gaze, soothing her and mesmerising her. ‘I’m sure that she will come in handy in one fashion or another,’ she murmured…

The air stank of rot and swamp gas, and scavenger birds spun through the overcast sky. There was no sun in these lands, and there hadn’t been for hundreds of years. In the Desolation of Nagash, it was always grey and dark and foul, a reflection of its creator’s soul. Nagashizzar was a twisted blend of mountain and fortress, and it loomed above the dead land like a monolith to a forgotten god.

It had taken them the better part of a year to reach the shores of the Sour Sea from Mourkain, and Neferata climbed swiftly, ignoring the tiny avalanches her movement set loose. Her patience had worn thin over the months of journeying and she was eager to reach her goal. The others followed at some distance. Ahead of her, Layla moved with inhuman grace, leaping and climbing, marking the safe path. ‘I smell ghouls,’ the girl called back.

‘These mountains are filthy with them,’ Morath said from below. The necromancer climbed slowly and cautiously, lacking the grace of his protectors. ‘There are thousands of warrens in these hills, thanks to Nagash.’

‘I would have thought that they’d have left,’ Rasha said, helping Morath climb. ‘When he died, I mean.’

‘Where would they go?’ Morath said. ‘When they were human, before Nagash corrupted them, Cripple Peak was their home. That ancestral memory keeps them here, lurking in the blighted shadow of Nagashizzar.’

‘The question is not their presence, but their intentions. I would not fight unless we have no choice,’ Neferata said, stopping to wait for the others to catch up. ‘This journey has taken up too much time as it is.’

‘It may take even longer, I fear,’ Morath said, leaning on his walking stick. He looked bad, cadaverous even, as if his human vitality were being leached away by their surroundings and replaced by something else. ‘Nagashizzar is massive, according to W’soran. It may be months before we find a safe way inside, let alone find that which we seek.’

‘Which is?’ Layla said, dropping down to perch bird-like above Neferata.

‘You should listen more than you natter, girl,’ Rasha said.

Layla stuck her tongue out between her fangs. Neferata chuckled. She reached up to yank on the braid of hair that dangled from the girl’s head. ‘We seek one of the Books of Nagash, child. One that W’soran seems certain is still hidden somewhere in this stinking pile.’

‘Implying it’s one that the old thief didn’t manage to steal when he fled,’ Rasha said.

‘There were nine of them,’ Morath said, looking up towards the high towers of Nagashizzar, shrouded in grey mist. ‘Nine books in all, comprising all of Nagash’s knowledge on the subject of death.’ Morath raised a hand. ‘W’soran stole one, as did Arkhan the Black. The other seven, however…’ He gestured limply. For more than two decades, Neferata had aided the necromancer in hunting down every scrap of information about those books. Her agents had scoured Araby, Cathay and Ind, hunting stories and memories. Neferata herself had travelled to the decadent coastal cities of the Black Gulf and hunted a certain Abdul ben Rashid through the Street of Booksellers in Copher, where she had torn him apart in broad daylight after he refused to hand over his necromantic scribbling.

And in two decades, all signs had pointed towards Nagashizzar.

‘Like as not, rats chewed them to rags and ghouls use them as loincloths,’ Rasha said. Morath glared at her, but said nothing. Neferata smiled. Necromancers were precious about their parchments and papyri.

‘We’d best hope not, my huntress,’ Neferata said, turning to continue on. ‘We need them.’ I need them, she thought. W’soran had sworn that those books had the secret to binding Alcadizzar’s angry ghost and freeing Nagash’s crown from his clutches. And Neferata wanted that crown. It was the only reason she had agreed to Ushoran’s mad plan of an expedition to Cripple Peak. It had taken them months to get here, and would likely take them months more to find those books, barring interruptions.

A shrill cry echoed from the rocks, rebounding down the spine of the mountain. Neferata’s head jerked up, and her nostrils flared. She smelled sour blood and rotting meat. It seemed that someone had come to greet the visitors. They had been forced to fight more than once on their trip through the Desolation, battling mutant beasts and the degenerate tribes of savages who clustered on the shores of the Sour Sea, but it had been days since they’d left the territory of the tribes behind.

A tumble of rocks rattled down from above, nearly dislodging Layla, who yelped as she was struck. Rasha shielded Morath and Neferata swatted a rock aside with her hand. A group of men would have likely been discomfited by the rock fall. For vampires, it was barely an annoyance.