Josh Reynolds - Neferata

‘Your magic is powerful, woman,’ Neferata said, stalking towards Hilga, who had got to her feet. ‘But I am more so.’ The dwarf woman’s reply was to attack. Her hammer’s head was inscribed with more runes than Neferata’s eyes could discern and it fairly hummed as it flashed towards her. She stumbled back, falling against the doors to the tombs. Her flesh sizzled and she screamed.

She staggered forwards and fell, smoke rising from her. ‘No, blood-drinker,’ Hilga said. ‘You will not desecrate our dead.’

Neferata growled low in her throat and then, as something caught her eye, she smiled nastily. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’

Hilga’s eyes widened behind her helm and she spun. Dromble stumbled towards her, animated by Naaima’s will. The other dead dwarfs were already falling upon those of their fellows who had survived the vampires’ attack. ‘No,’ Hilga whispered as Dromble clutched at her. ‘No!’

‘Yes,’ Neferata hissed, lunging to her feet and grabbing the priestess from behind. ‘Unlock it, priestess, and I will let you live.’ In the distance she could hear the sound of clomping boots. Reinforcements were on their way. They had no time.

‘Never,’ Hilga cried out, struggling in Neferata’s grip.

‘Then die,’ Neferata snarled in frustration, shoving the dwarf into the grip of her dead companion. Dromble gripped the priestess’s braids in one hand and clawed for her throat with the other. Hilga set her feet and drove her hammer into the tomb-warden’s skull, cracking it and the helm protecting it. But not soon enough; Dromble’s fingers tightened, cartilage popped and flesh tore, and Hilga toppled backwards, choking on her own blood.

‘Neferata, we must go,’ Naaima said. As if to emphasise her words, dwarf horns blew, signalling the approach of more warriors. The animated corpses of the guards swayed in place and then, one by one, as if struck by a strong breeze, they toppled. The magic that seeped from the Vaults was too strong to keep the dead animated for more than a few moments.

Neferata glared down at the body, and then at the doors that were forever barred to her. With a frustrated snarl, she led her handmaidens back into the darkness.

The khopesh, its blade pitted and scarred by sand and time, chopped into the marble column, missing Neferata’s head by inches. She slid down and lashed out with a foot, kicking the dead thing in its ribcage and snapping its spine. It toppled, only to be replaced by two more. Spears thrust at her, and blood spurted from her cheek and arm. She cursed and smashed a leering skull with a jab of her palm.

As the dead crowded into the plaza, she slithered up the column, avoiding the bronze weapons which sought her heart. She leapt for the aqueduct, splashing into the water. She paused and surveyed her villa. Ghouls spitted on the spears of Settra’s legions writhed in the torchlight, reaching vainly for her. She felt neither sympathy nor pity for the creatures, though she had brought them to this sad fate.

The screams of her handmaidens, however, evoked rage. She longed to throw herself back into the fray, but her instincts of self-preservation were too strong. The sound of chariot wheels crunching across the cobbles reached her, and she turned and ran along the aqueduct. In the distance, Sartosa burned.

Megara’s warning had haunted her for years, but she had never truly believed that they would come for her. And now it was too late to do anything but run. The Tomb-Fleets of Settra the Imperishable had come to Sartosa, carrying the vengeance of Nehekhara across the sea.

‘Neferata,’ Naaima called out. Neferata saw her handmaiden on the roof of the villa with the other survivors. She heard the creak of dusty strings and saw a line of skeletal archers.

‘Get down, fools!’ Neferata shouted, as the arrows sped forth. She did not look to see who had fallen. Instead, she turned, alerted by the quiet tremble of the aqueduct. The butt end of a staff caught her in the belly, folding her over. She sank to her knees and looked up. ‘You,’ she hissed.

‘Neferata,’ Khalida of Lybaras said in a voice like the rustling of ancient silk. Her slim form was bound tight by the ceremonial wrappings and her proud head still wore her funerary head-dress and the mortuary mask that hid the ravages that death had made upon her once beautiful face. ‘In the darkness I dreamt of you, cousin.’

‘I dreamed of you as well, little hawk,’ Neferata said, rising slowly to face her cousin.

‘Hawk no longer. My wings are dust and bone,’ Khalida said. Her wrists creaked as she began to spin the asp-headed staff. It was the same staff that she had been entombed with. Neferata had placed it in her hands herself. ‘I crawl through time now, like an asp.’ So saying, she struck out, the serpentine head of the staff cracking Neferata across the shoulder and nearly spinning her around. Khalida slid forwards, the water seeming to part for her linen-wrapped feet as she struck again and left a red gash across Neferata’s back.

Neferata fell forwards into the water, agony such as she had never felt spitting through her. She rolled aside, nearly falling out of the aqueduct as the bronze-shod end of the staff came down, cracking the stone. Water began to flow down through the crack.

‘You took my wings, Neferata. You made me crawl. Now I will return the favour. Crawl, cousin,’ Khalida said, her tone remorseless and empty of the emotion that should have permeated such a statement. ‘Crawl.’

‘Never,’ Neferata snapped, kicking Khalida in the midsection. The dead woman staggered and Neferata came to her feet, her talons flashing and ripping through the wrappings around Khalida’s chest, revealing the leathery flesh beneath. Fingers like iron bands fastened on Neferata’s throat and she felt herself hefted, then she was flying down into the plaza. Tiles cracked and exploded beneath her. The dead circled her, but none moved to attack. She was Khalida’s prey, and no other’s.

Neferata pushed herself to her feet as her cousin approached, her torn wrappings fluttering about her like hissing snakes. The staff snapped out, catching her on the chin, and she was airborne again before landing heavily. ‘Nehekhara is dead, Neferata, and all her people with her. Why should you escape the fate of the Great Land? Why should you walk in twilight, while your people suffer in darkness?’

‘Because I am queen,’ Neferata snarled, lunging up and grabbing the staff. The two of them swung about, struggling. ‘And the suffering of our people is not my responsibility, cousin. I tried to save them!’

‘Is that what you call it?’ Khalida said, wrenching the staff away. Neferata ducked the blow and her claws scored the beautiful mask. Khalida stepped back. ‘Your actions damned them, though they knew it not until the end.’

‘No,’ Neferata growled.

‘Yes,’ Khalida said. She struck again and again, forcing Neferata to dodge and back away. The dead allowed her to retreat. ‘Your existence dishonours the memory of our people, cousin. It spits on their grave.’

‘They dishonoured me,’ Neferata shrieked, anger burning through her. ‘They forced me out! They burned my beautiful Lahmia! They deserved all that Nagash did to them!’ As the words slipped her lips, she felt it again — that dark, watchful presence that had been coiling within her ever since she had set foot on Sartosa’s shores. It purred in satisfaction and she saw darkness. She shook her head and Khalida’s staff caught her on the arm.