Josh Reynolds - Neferata

‘Hail, my Kontoi,’ Neferata said, plucking a final bolt from her body.

‘I thought—’ Khaled began as he swung down off his steed. Zandor followed suit, frowning.

‘I know what you thought,’ Neferata said. ‘Yet here I am, my Kontoi, coming to your rescue again.’

‘Rescue,’ Khaled repeated, glaring at her.

‘Oh yes, though you don’t deserve it.’ She looked back and forth between them. ‘Which of you was it, I wonder, who decided to let me walk into a trap? Was it you, my Kontoi? Or was it perhaps you, Zandor?’ She leered at the Strigoi, who stepped back. ‘Regardless, the dwarfs are falling back to their final redoubt.’

‘Ushoran will be most pleased,’ Zandor said smugly. ‘You have done well, woman.’

Neferata didn’t reply. Khaled looked at her. ‘They’re retreating to their temples, aren’t they?’ he said, eyes glinting. ‘Zandor and I will take several of the Strigoi and cut them off. We can’t let them scurry into their damnable holes. I would be done with this.’

‘For once, we are of one mind,’ Neferata said. ‘There will be women and children in those temples. I want them alive.’

‘Why?’ Khaled said.

‘Because I have commanded such,’ she said, putting an edge to her words. ‘I intend to offer the dwarfs terms—’

‘What?’ Zandor snarled. ‘Who are you to—?’

‘I am Neferata of Lahmia,’ she snarled, backhanding the Strigoi and knocking him from his feet. She turned her glare on Khaled, pinning him in place before he could draw his sword. ‘That should be reason enough to do as I command. I want them alive, Khaled, alive and unharmed.’

Khaled stepped back and hauled Zandor to his feet. The Strigoi glared at her groggily, but said nothing as Khaled hauled him away. Neferata watched them go, and then said, ‘You can come out now, Anmar.’

The girl stepped out from the shadows of the gateway, her sword gripped loosely in her hand. ‘Who would you have helped, I wonder?’ Neferata said, turning to her. Anmar said nothing. She met Neferata’s eyes, but only for a moment.

‘Have I ever told you about my cousin?’ Neferata said. ‘Her name was—’

‘Yes, you have,’ Anmar said softly. Neferata stopped, nonplussed. ‘Why would you spare them?’

‘The dwarfs?’ Neferata said. Anmar nodded. Neferata smiled thinly. ‘Spite. Ushoran wants them exterminated. Thus, I will spare them.’ That and it would be easier to get the dwarfs to surrender if their loved ones were offered safe passage.

‘Is that why you tried to take the crown?’

Neferata hesitated. ‘Why are you asking this? Yes, girl, I wanted the crown for spite.’

‘Is that why you took me?’ Anmar said, shifting her sword in her grip.

‘I—’ Neferata hesitated again. What had got into the girl? ‘Anmar, you are my little leopard. I took you because I wanted to give you my gift.’ She stepped towards the girl. ‘Anmar—’

‘I must go. My brother will need me,’ Anmar said, slipping past Neferata and speeding after Khaled.

‘What would you have done if she’d helped him?’ Naaima said. Neferata turned and saw her oldest handmaiden picking her way across the bodies of the dead. Before Neferata could speak, Naaima continued. ‘The others are doing as you commanded, never fear. The Strigoi will never see them coming.’

‘Good.’ Neferata peered at her. ‘You will take Morath.’

‘I will be gentle,’ Naaima said, flashing a crooked smile.

Neferata nodded. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it. ‘I wouldn’t have hurt her,’ she said finally. ‘She is as dear to me as my own sister.’

‘So was Khalida,’ Naaima said. ‘And when it was necessary, you snuffed her as if she were a flame.’ Naaima smiled sadly. ‘We are tools, Neferata. You call us sisters, but we are but pieces on your game-board. You collect us and hoard us, and sometimes you spend us. Sometimes you spend us for ambition. Other times, it is for spite.’

Neferata stared at her, stunned. Naaima stepped forwards and took her mistress’s face in her hands and kissed her softly on the cheek. ‘And we love you for it, because we cannot help but to do so. You unmake us as easily as Nagash’s crown threatened to unmake you, and remake us in your image.’ She stepped back and turned away.

Neferata watched her go, part of her wanting to batter the sad smile from Naaima’s face. But the other part, the cold, calculating part, merely made her nod. She pushed the distraction of it all aside. She trotted towards the ongoing battle, slowly at first, then picking up speed.

Neferata scanned the stairs with the eye of an experienced general as she ran. She had learned over the centuries to read the ebb and flow of battle as easily as Morath read his mouldy parchments. This was a fighting withdrawal. They had caught the dwarfs by surprise, and there simply weren’t enough of them to face a foe that was seemingly limitless, not to mention fearless. It would be a retreat, then, down to the next level where the final defences were likely already being prepared.

The dwarf rearguard on the Deeping Stair fought with tenacity, but the dead noticed only obstacles, not determination. The sheer number of skeletons and dwarf zombies pulled down the defenders, reducing them from a solid battle-line to struggling, fast-consumed knots of embattled heroes. Rune-weapons blazed in the hands of the mightiest warriors of the hold, and for a moment, just a moment, it seemed as if they might be enough.

King Borri stood amidst his bodyguard. He still held Razek’s axe and he gesticulated with it in the direction of the relentless legions stalking towards the dwarf ranks. Borri was as canny as his son, and the dwarfs of the Silver Pinnacle had fought the dead before. As Neferata watched, a dozen dwarfs ran forwards at Borri’s command, carrying bubbling cauldrons full of pitch. They slung them into the advancing dead. A moment later, crossbow bolts with burning tips were fired over the heads of Borri and his men.

The wide expanse of floor leading to the Deeping Stair exploded into flame. By itself, it wouldn’t have stopped the dead, but it did slow them down enough for the miniature catapults that had been dragged into position on the lower landing to be of use sooner rather than later. Irregular chunks of rock were flung into the air and where they struck, they left a trail of splintered bones and gaps in the ranks.

Morath winced at each impact. Neferata looked up at the necromancer as she reached his side, where he was surrounded by a grave-guard of skeletal horsemen clad in rotting leather and bronze armour that had gone green with age. ‘Pull them back,’ she said. ‘Between the heat and the rocks, the barrow-dead are too vulnerable.’

‘Then what do you suggest we send in their place, harsh language?’ Morath said, not looking at her. The strain of controlling so many dead was plainly visible on his face. Neferata caught sight of Naaima on his other side.

‘No, but there are a wealth of troops they might not be so eager to bounce rocks off,’ she countered, sweeping a hand out to indicate the dwarf dead. Morath blinked. Then he smiled weakly.

‘Ushoran was right to send you,’ he said. His smile faded. ‘I—’ he began, but she waved him to silence.

‘Raise them, necromancer. Set brother against brother. Let’s give our hosts something worthy to record in their pathetic book of complaints, shall we?’

Morath squared his shoulders and took a breath. Neferata felt him pluck the strands of dark magic that clustered near the bodies of the slain with his mind. He raised a hand, his fingers hooked like arthritic claws. Morath had changed much over the past few years. Only traces of his previous handsomeness remained; he was a shrivelled wreck now, but more mighty than he had been. With W’soran’s flight, the burden of Mourkain’s magical needs had fallen on Morath’s shoulders. He had kept the kingdom running, but only just.