Josh Reynolds - Neferata

She needed it. It had called her to Mourkain to claim it. She was a queen, was she not? And queens had more need of crowns than grovelling schemers like Ushoran. She saw it so clearly now, down in these dark tunnels. It had used Kadon to draw Ushoran, and it had used Ushoran to draw her and now, now was the time for it to be claimed by its true mistress. After all, was she not Nagash’s rightful heir? Was she not a daughter of his blood, at least in the ways that mattered? Was she not a queen of the Great Land?

Yes, yes, you are all of this and more, it murmured, caressing her thoughts. You will be a queen again and you will rule over silent, perfect cities. You will rule over a world of unchanging tides and unfailing devotion. All will love you. All will serve you.

Even him, it hissed, even Alcadizzar.

She shuddered slightly, thinking again of Alcadizzar’s face. He would be a ghost-king for a vampire-queen; what could be more appropriate? He would love her in death as he had not in life. Everything would be–

The blade stabbed down from out of the darkness above as the roof of the tunnel seemed to unfold like the membranous wing of a bat. Morath, caught unawares, could only stare upwards in stupefaction. Neferata’s palms slammed together on the oily blade, trapping it inches from Morath’s head. With a roar, she jerked the blade’s wielder from its hiding place and dashed it to the ground. The cloak the small figure wore was the colour of the rock, and its hairy limbs were bound in leather and rags. It jerked its blade free of Neferata’s grip and flipped up, lashing out at her as it chattered curses. It wielded two blades and they hummed as they cut the air. She had little room to manoeuvre in the cramped tunnel, but the creature seemed to have no such difficulty. It sprang into the air and bounced from wall to floor to ceiling, always stabbing and cutting at her.

Losing her temper, she shot a hand out, wincing as the blades chopped into her arm. She swung her arm, pulling the weapons out of her attacker’s hands, and grabbed a hairy throat with her unwounded hand. The hood fell back, revealing the frothing, snarling snout of a great rat. With a cry of disgust, Neferata bashed the creature’s brains out on the side of the tunnel, leaving a dark trail across the rock.

‘What in the name of Settra was that thing?’ Layla yelped, looking around. The scuttling sounds they had been hearing since they entered the mines were louder now, as if whatever was making them was no longer concerned with stealth.

Rasha spat a word in Arabyan. Neferata nodded as she pulled the blades from her arm. ‘Ratkin, even as Morath warned us,’ she said. ‘Foul little beasts. Where there’s one, there’s a thousand. We should hurry,’ she added.

‘It might be too late,’ Rasha said, pointing back the way they had come. Strange lights flickered in the darkness. Weapons rattled and a wave of chittering voices rolled down the tunnel.

‘The throne room is near, it must be,’ Morath said, rubbing his throat and looking down at the body of his would-be assassin. He sounded more hopeful than confident. ‘If we hurry—’

‘Hold them for as long as you can,’ Neferata said to her handmaidens. Rasha grimaced and nodded. Layla hissed eagerly.

‘I’ve killed rats before. It should be easy.’

Neferata didn’t reply. She grabbed Morath and slung him over her shoulder. He squawked at the treatment, but fell silent as she broke into a sprint. She ran easily, despite the encumbrance. ‘You said it was nearby,’ she growled to Morath.

‘I can feel it, like a weight on my heart,’ he gasped. The skeletal hand flexed and the light that clung to the fingertips began to glow more brightly. She took that as a good sign. Behind her she heard the clash of weapons and smelled the musk-stink of the ratkin’s blood as it was spilled. She sped up, moving like quicksilver. Anyone watching would have seen little more than a pale blur. The rough mine tunnels gave way to shaped corridors as she ran. The corpse-light was burning as brightly as a torch as she raced onwards.

She passed through vast, dark, deserted halls and echoing vaults. She loped through great, now-empty storehouses and silent, shuttered rooms that had once been the sites of Nagash’s blasphemous rites. Morath gasped as she ran through the immense mountain crypt, barely able to breathe so swiftly did she move.

Neferata felt a strange sense of recognition and realised that Nagashizzar and Mourkain shared more than a legacy of death; Kadon, whether he had known it or not, had recreated Nagash’s citadel in his own crude fashion. Thus, when they reached the antechamber to Nagash’s throne room she knew it at once for what it was.

She barrelled through a thick curtain of spider-webs and dust, sliding across a rough stone floor on her feet and hand, her claws leaving thin canyons in the stone. She tossed Morath down. ‘On your feet, necromancer, we’re here.’

Morath climbed to his feet and held up the glowing hand. The corpse-light illuminated a great swathe of the massive chamber. It was a crude parody of the antechamber to the throne room of the great palace of Khemri. Even Nagash, it seemed, had not been immune to nostalgia.

The doors to the throne room were little more than unfinished slabs of bronze now gone green from verdigris and their hinges were braided sinew, long since fossilised into immobility. Morath hesitated, staring up at them. Strange char marks covered them, and he said, ‘There was a battle here.’

Neferata looked at him. ‘Can you open them?’ she said flatly.

‘W’soran taught me,’ Morath said. ‘It will take me a few minutes, however. I am weak,’ he added, at her look. ‘These past weeks have been difficult. I am merely mortal, woman, unlike you.’

‘Why did you volunteer to come with me, Morath? W’soran wanted to send Melkhior, and in truth that might have been more convenient,’ Neferata said, annoyed.

‘W’soran is frightened,’ Morath said, looking at the door. ‘He fears the crown and its hold on Ushoran. Aye, and on him as well, and you,’ he added. ‘He is planning something. To flee, I think. And when he goes, only some of his students will go with him. The others will be disposed of.’

‘You want protection,’ Neferata said.

‘Wouldn’t you?’ Morath looked at her. ‘Isn’t that why you came to Mourkain?’

‘No,’ Neferata said.

Morath grunted. ‘No, I suppose not, eh? Well, you’ll soon get what you want, won’t you?’

‘And you’ll get what you want,’ Neferata said. ‘I’ll need an advisor, Morath. A man who knows his people as well as you seem to would be invaluable.’

Morath looked at her. ‘Do not offer what you cannot promise.’

Neferata sniffed. ‘Can I not? When the crown is mine—’

‘You will not be you any longer. Or so W’soran says,’ Morath said darkly. ‘Even Ushoran is not Ushoran. Not any more. He grows less and less like the man I once served, and more like the thing he is — bestial and rapacious and too hungry for this world.’

‘But you could keep me from becoming that way, Morath of Mourkain,’ Neferata said, clutching his arm. ‘Unlike Ushoran, I know how to listen to those who serve me!’

‘Really? Because you ignored the fears of your handmaidens to undertake this journey,’ Morath said. He jerked his arm free of her grip. ‘I must concentrate.’ He stretched out a pale, thin hand and stroked the air. A pall of dust rose, puffing from the edges of the doors. Then, with a groan as deep as the mountain itself, the long-immobile doors began to move. They rumbled inwards, shaking the ground beneath Neferata’s feet.

Flagstones of black marble paved the path inwards, and the path itself was lined with elaborate and grotesque columns which stretched up into the darkness to support the arched ceiling. Morath’s wheezing breath echoed strangely in the space. Neferata strode ahead of him, her eyes adjusting easily to the darkness.