Josh Reynolds - Neferata

‘Rasha, stay beside Morath!’ Neferata barked, drawing her sword. ‘Layla, get back here and help her!’

‘But—’ Layla began, searching for the creature that had dared to drop rocks on her.

‘Now,’ Neferata snarled, bounding up the slope with more speed than caution. ‘Keep the sorcerer breathing, whatever else happens.’

Over the years, Neferata had become intimately familiar with the methods and manner of the corpse-eaters. Where there was death, there were the eaters-of-the-dead. They had a society of sorts, and kings and queens and lords and ladies. They were a mockery of the men they had descended from, but even mockery has a kernel of truth.

But these ghouls were not like the almost-tame creatures that scampered through the tunnels beneath Mourkain, or the organised tribes of Araby. No, these mountain-ghouls were a breed apart. It was akin to the difference between wolves and dogs. Hidden tunnel mouths suddenly vomited clay-crusted simian shapes. The ghouls boiled from their tunnel like wasps from a disturbed nest, their ape-like agility propelling them down towards her from all directions. They had painted their flesh with clay and filth, and some carried sharpened bones as weapons. Most, however, seemed to content to use their claws and teeth.

Neferata shrieked, casting her voice at them like a weapon. Several dozen stumbled to a halt, tripping up those immediately behind them. Neferata was on them a moment later. Her sword slashed across the front rank, gutting four of the creatures and lopping the arms from a fifth. She pressed her attack, aware that even with all of her strength the creatures could pull her down through sheer weight of numbers. She had to break them; they were scavengers by nature, and would retreat if their prey looked to be too strong.

Her elbow came down between the head and shoulders of a ghoul, shattering its neck even as her leg swept out. Her foot crushed a slavering jaw and the force of the kick spun the ghoul in place, dropping it dead to the rocks. Her sword darted out, chopping like a cleaver into grey flesh. Severed limbs lay heaped on the ground as she created a corridor of death through the ghoul ranks.

Alone, Neferata had blunted the momentum of the ambush. The ghouls scrambled back from her, yelping and howling. Many retreated for their holes, but more stayed. Greasy bodies crashed into her as they sought to drag her down. When she killed one, two more took its place. Hooked claws tore her flesh and she returned the favour. She was in constant motion, her feet and hands crushing skulls and splintering bones even as her sword removed heads and spilled intestines.

For a moment, the snarling creatures that swirled around her wore the faces of enemies new and old, of every obstacle that stood in her path — Razek and Al-Khattab, Lamashizzar and Khalida, Khaled and Ushoran. Obstacle and enemy were interchangeable concepts for Neferata and she wondered, in the bliss of bloodletting, when that had become the case.

Then the moment passed and she stood alone, drenched in blood. The survivors squatted around her, stinking of fear, their yellow gazes riveted on her. It was ever the way with the corpse-eaters; simply kill enough of them and they worshipped you. If only men were so easy.

Neferata stretched out her sword, catching one of the larger beasts beneath its jaw with the flat of the blade. It gurgled something. She frowned. ‘Morath, I trust W’soran taught you whatever debased mewling passes for the language of Nagashizzar,’ she called out.

Morath hurried towards her, flanked by Neferata’s handmaidens. The blades of both vampires were dark with blood, but only a few ghouls had been opportunistic enough to attack them. Those creatures littered the slope below. Morath spoke in a halting, gurgling tongue that seemed to be less word than bark. The ghouls answered with barks of their own. Morath turned to Neferata, who was examining the blood dripping from her sword to the rocks. Several ghouls squatted low and snuffled at the spreading stain. ‘You’ve impressed them,’ Morath said.

‘They will serve us, or I will hunt them down. Tell them that,’ Neferata said.

‘That’s unnecessary. They know,’ Morath said. ‘You have a way with ghoul-kind. Even W’soran can only gain grudging service from them, and they flee at the first opportunity.’ He made a face. ‘They call him the Painfather.’

‘The minds of ghouls are as the minds of men. They seek strong leaders,’ Neferata said. The ghouls began to flow back into their holes in pairs and groups. A number stayed with them, as if to act as escort, a fact which Morath confirmed.

‘They will show us the secret ways into Nagashizzar. But it is dangerous in the deeps. There are creatures there that even the ghouls fear,’ Morath said as they followed the capering cannibals. ‘Rat-things, such as W’soran once spoke of.’

Neferata nodded. She had heard similar stories in Cathay and then again in Araby; of chittering red-eyed shadows and stealthy paws in the dark. She had thought it a fable. But now, looking up at the crude walls of Nagashizzar where it sprouted from the mountain’s peak, she could believe it. Where else would rats congregate, save in a warren such as this? This close to the fortress of the Great Necromancer, she could feel the evil that infected rock and soil. It sank greedy claws into her mind, and she felt a strange invigoration, similar to that which she felt when entering Kadon’s pyramid in Mourkain.

The ghouls led them up the slope and into the warrens that honeycombed Cripple Peak. As they entered the foul-smelling hole, Neferata realised that Nagashizzar was very likely sitting atop a molehill. The trip through the cramped and crude ghoul-tunnels was tortuous and did nothing to improve her first impression. The creatures had clawed them from the very stuff of the mountains and they wound in seemingly no particular direction. Nonetheless, the ghouls led them unerringly on and they walked for hours, deeper into the darkness.

Here and there as they made their way through the tunnels they saw what remained of its structure and the delving of its former inhabitants. There had been more than ghouls in Nagashizzar once, and not all of the human tribes that Nagash had conquered had degenerated into the debased wretches guiding them. Some had simply died. There were heaps of bone — some gnawed and some not — clustered in corners and in nooks and alcoves, like offerings to some vast charnel god. Not Mordig, though, not here. No, the only god here was Nagash, and the ghouls prayed to him in the dark.

There were ghoul-women in the tunnels they travelled through, and squalling pups as well. They hissed and shied away as the males moved ahead, snarling and snapping, keeping the others away from their ‘guests’. There was no sign of what they had once been in their behaviour or appearance. ‘Is this our fate?’ Morath muttered.

‘What was that, necromancer?’ Neferata said.

‘These creatures were once men,’ Morath said, gesturing to a cowering carrion-eater. ‘Five or ten generations ago, they might have been the same as my own people. And now they are — what? They are nothing but cannibal beasts.’

‘One cannot live in the bowels of death for so long without developing a taste for it,’ Neferata said with a shrug.

‘Is it inevitable, then?’ Morath spat. ‘Will the Strigoi become cowering apes, hiding in the dark and gnawing bones?’ He glared at the vampires. ‘Is that what awaits us—’ Morath stopped as the tunnel blossomed into an uneven chamber. Strange lights seemed to move through the rock and, his rage forgotten, he dug his fingers into the soft, ashy rock, revealing something that wept a toxic green smoke. His hand trembled as he examined the stuff that rested on his palm. ‘This is…’ he hissed. ‘I didn’t believe… not really.’