Josh Reynolds - Neferata

The room itself had seen much activity, despite the sealed doors. There were great gaping holes in the stone walls and immense char marks scored the spots where there were no holes. The black marble on the floor had been seared to slag in places and more than one of the columns had tumbled into pieces. Intuition told her that the rat-men had likely burrowed through Nagash’s throne room after the Great Necromancer’s death, and they had left evidence of their presence, including piles of old droppings and huddled, miserable piles of gnawed bones.

The centre of the room was marked by the presence of more than a dozen ancient corpses, scattered haphazardly in a rough circle. Morath grabbed her arm as she started forwards. ‘Abn-i-khat,’ he whispered, pointing with the skeletal hand. A glowing stain marked the floor.

She kicked a body aside and it crumbled into dust. ‘What was this?’

‘A rite of some kind was conducted here. But it was interrupted,’ Morath said, his eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘Perhaps W’soran…?’

‘It would not surprise me,’ Neferata said. W’soran had been chased from Nagashizzar with his tail between his legs, and he was naturally reluctant to discuss it. Her eyes scanned the chamber and were drawn to an ominous presence occupying the far end.

She hissed, and Morath looked to see what had startled her. He swallowed thickly as he saw it and said fearfully, ‘Nagash’s throne…’

The throne of the Undying King occupied the far wall. It was, like the throne of Mourkain, a paean to barbaric splendour. But unlike Mourkain, its majesty was no pallid mockery. Here was the truth of which Mourkain was only a weak echo. The throne was crafted from great blocks of stone and petrified wood and lined with the bones of beasts and men. Ropes of now-brittle human hair had been woven into a cushion and glimmering strands of abn-i-khat ran through its form, casting a faint illumination over the floor all around it. In the first moment that Neferata glimpsed it, a massive shadowy shape seemed to occupy it, only to waver and vanish as Morath’s spell-light passed over it.

‘Magnificent,’ she said, swaying towards it. It drew her in, as if it were calling out to her in a whisper that only she could hear. As she drew close, she felt something shudder through her, and abruptly, her stomach twisted into a painful knot. Pain slithered through her limbs and she staggered. It felt as if a hundred hands were plucking at her flesh, seeking to strip it from her bones. She squalled and felt her body contort and then she staggered, unable to stand.

‘Neferata,’ Morath cried out, grabbing her as she slumped. He dragged her awkwardly back, away from the throne. ‘What—’

‘It’s him !’ she shrieked, shoving him aside and scrambling away from the throne. The feeling of revulsion lessened, and the pain waned. She spat out the black blood that had suddenly filled her mouth, and looked at her arms, where black veins pulsed angrily.

‘Nagash is dead,’ Morath said, looking at the throne.

‘So am I, necromancer,’ Neferata snapped. ‘He’s there. Some part of him is in those stones, clinging like a leech. It’s like a knife scoring my nerves.’

‘I see something,’ Morath said, stepping forwards. She resisted the urge to cringe as he drew close to the throne. ‘Look,’ he said, holding his corpse-light aloft to reveal dust-covered shapes which were spread out around the foot of the throne and spilled down the steps of the dais.

‘What are they?’

‘Tomes,’ Morath muttered, dropping to his knees before the throne. ‘How long have they lain here?’

‘Does it matter?’ She turned away from the throne and gritted her teeth. She could still feel the nauseating sensations. ‘Do what we brought you here to do, and be quick about it!’ As Morath set to clearing the dust and mould from the tomes, she strode towards the doors, wanting to get as far from the throne as possible.

The sounds of battle were growing louder. She felt no fear for her handmaidens. She knew from experience that even the most inexperienced of their kind was far tougher to kill than anything yet living in this mountain. Her blood was strong, and it made others strong as well.

It would make the world strong. She smiled softly at the thought, knowing even as she did so that the thought was not hers. Some small part of her rebelled then, angry. She would not do as Ushoran had done. There would be no aristocracy of the night, battening fat on the blood of mortals. That way lay stagnation and cessation. That way lay rebellion and danger.

No, she would rule softly and gently, from behind curtains and viziers. She would stand behind all of the thrones of the world and their politics and wars would be her parlour games, enacted for her amusement down the long, unending corridor of years. It would be a great game, that.

Bones clattered beneath her feet. She looked down. Piles of brown and yellow lay heaped in the corners, as if some great force had swept them aside. Rotted armour and rusting weapons lay amongst the piles, enough to outfit an army. Dust and cobwebs and the filth of ages provided a pathetic barrow for the dead. She glanced back at the throne.

‘You failed, old skull. But Neferata will not,’ she said, baring her fangs. She blinked. The veins of abn-i-khat had seemed to flicker in response to her words, and she felt a chill curl around her spine. Momentarily unnerved, she said, ‘Morath, have you found anything useful in that rubbish?’

‘I… don’t know,’ he said. He sat on the dais steps, a crumbling book in his hands. The glow from the hand had dimmed and it lay near his foot, discarded. He thumbed through the crumbling pages cautiously. ‘They’ve just sat here for centuries…’ he said, as if offended by the thought. ‘Why wouldn’t the scavengers have taken them?’

‘Maybe they tried,’ Neferata said, gesturing to the crumbling bodies. ‘Have you found what we need, or not?’ Before he could reply, the sound of swift footsteps on the stone echoed through the chamber. ‘Prepare yourself, necromancer,’ she said, loosening her sword in its sheath. She could smell the rat-musk now and she thought that she caught a glimpse of red eyes in the darkness of one of the holes which marred the wall.

‘There are so many of them — so much knowledge,’ Morath almost moaned, flicking through crumbling pages, his eyes widened as if to drink in the faded scrawling that covered each page. ‘What we could do with all of this—’

Neferata glanced at him. ‘I care nothing for Nagash’s scribbling, Morath. Find the right damn one before it’s too late—’

With a squealing cry, more than a dozen rat-things burst from one of the close tunnels, carrying short stabbing spears and rough wooden shields. They charged towards Neferata and she moved to meet them. Morath shot to his feet and spat harsh, croaking syllables, and a curling spike of dark, blistering energy carved a swathe of destruction through the horde. Neferata was hot on its heels and her sword smashed down through a shield and into the furry body cowering beneath it.

In moments the surviving rats were scampering back the way they had come. Neferata spun as Rasha and Layla entered the throne room through the doors, covered in blood, some of it their own. ‘They’re regrouping,’ Rasha said. ‘And more are coming besides. Morath was right — we’ve walked into a nest of the foul beasts.’

‘More than a nest,’ Morath said, looking longingly at the books and scrolls scattered across the dais. ‘If W’soran was telling the truth, there’s a damn city down there and enough troops to keep us busy until the world ends.’ He snatched one of the books up and flipped through it. ‘We could kill thousands and they’d still keep coming.’ He clutched the crumbling book to his chest.