‘If you had, Nagash still would have done as he did, and Nehekhara would still be dead,’ Neferata said. ‘And we would be dead with it.’
‘We belong dead,’ Abhorash said. Neferata said nothing. ‘It is the pyramid,’ he said after a moment, abruptly switching topics.
‘And what pyramid are you referring to?’ Neferata said, not looking at him.
‘You’ll see it soon enough,’ he grunted, turning back to his horse. ‘You want to go to Mourkain, after all.’
‘Feel free to talk about it anyway,’ she said. ‘What is it, Abhorash? Did it call you as well?’ An unintended note of pleading entered her voice and she cursed herself for the weakness. ‘Does it come to you in your dreams?’
He shifted uncomfortably. She relented, seeing that he would not speak of it. ‘Tell me about Mourkain,’ she said. ‘Tell me about Ushoran.’
‘He has made himself king over these people,’ Abhorash said. ‘Savages mostly, though their culture is not as degenerate as some in these mountains,’ he added. He was looking at Vorag as he said it.
‘And Strigos,’ she said.
‘Their name for themselves,’ Abhorash said. ‘The Strigoi of Strigos, and Mourkain is their capital.’ He looked at her. ‘They are a hardy people.’
‘They speak Nehekharan,’ she said.
‘A debased form, yes, I suppose they do,’ Abhorash said.
‘And you don’t find that curious?’
‘I hadn’t given it much thought. Settra had outposts farther north than this in his time,’ Abhorash said, as if that explained everything. ‘In time, they might even be as our people are. Were,’ he added, frowning. Neferata grimaced. The people of Nehekhara were dead and gone now. They were dust and bones, thanks to Nagash.
‘And now Ushoran rules them,’ she said. ‘How did that come about, I wonder?’
Abhorash looked at her. ‘Does it disturb you?’
‘Doesn’t it you? Oh, I forgot, you’re his champion now, aren’t you?’
Abhorash growled. Neferata met his glare and held it. ‘It won’t work, you know. Not with him. Ushoran is no more a king than—’
‘Than you are a queen,’ Abhorash bit out. ‘Not now and never again.’ He took her hand. ‘Neferata…’
She yanked her hand free of his grip. ‘No one touches me without my permission, my champion,’ she said.
‘As I have said, I am no longer your champion,’ he said, letting his hand drop to his sword’s pommel.
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘You are Ushoran’s champion now.’
Abhorash’s lip curled. ‘No. That particular honour goes to Vorag. I am a mere ajal.’
Neferata cocked her head. ‘Ajal,’ she repeated, tasting the unfamiliar word.
‘It is the Strigoi term for a lesser lord. Ushoran is stingy with titles,’ Abhorash said, smiling thinly.
‘Why?’ she said.
‘Why?’ He seemed puzzled by the question.
‘Yes, Abhorash, why,’ she said. ‘Why serve him at all?’
His eyes shrank to slits. ‘You wouldn’t understand, my queen,’ he said.
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
He turned and strode away, his cloak flaring about him. Neferata watched him go and snorted.
‘He is frightened,’ Naaima said. Neferata looked at her handmaiden. As ever, she had not heard the other woman’s approach. In life, Naaima had been a shadow, and little had changed in death.
‘Abhorash doesn’t know how to be frightened,’ Neferata said, albeit with more uncertainty than she was used to.
‘Then he has learned,’ Naaima said.
Neferata frowned. If Naaima was right, then that boded ill. What was Abhorash frightened of? Did he feel the same hungry pull that she did? Was that what had drawn him to Mourkain?
Do you feel it, Neferata? Do you feel the silent angles of the Corpse Geometries growing sharper about you? The charnel mathematics of Usirian have drawn you here, Neferata…
‘Silence,’ she hissed, closing her eyes. The voice withdrew. Usirian was the god of decay and death. The jackal-headed potentate of graveyards and dead-things; he was no more real than Asaph or Ptra. She pulled her furs tighter about her, suddenly, inexplicably cold.
Neferata and the others were given the horses of those of Vorag’s men killed in battle with the beasts. The animals did not shy when the vampires mounted. Vorag met Neferata’s questioning gaze and said, ‘Hetman Ushoran instituted a breeding programme several years ago. He wanted horses that would be used to our smell.’ He patted his own.
‘That implies that there are enough of us to ride them,’ she said. Hetman meant king, she thought, from the context.
Vorag smiled widely. ‘More than enough, I should say. Everyone important got the bite.’ He chuckled. ‘And more than a few who weren’t.’
‘Which are you?’
Vorag’s face reddened and then he grunted out a laugh. ‘I’d be insulted, but I have a feeling you’d make me pay for it, Lady Neferata.’
‘I would indeed, Timagal Vorag,’ she said. There was much of Ushoran in this creature, or perhaps like simply called to like. She had proven herself the stronger and now Vorag would play nice. At least until her back was turned.
‘I am important,’ he said. ‘The hetman gave me estates and men, which is more than he gave to some agals.’
‘Agal and ajal,’ Neferata murmured, filing the terms away for reference. Even among barbarians there was a hierarchy. ‘Tell me more, Timagal… I would not appear ignorant.’
The ad-hoc column marched at night, out of deference to the immortals. Sunlight could be borne, at least by herself and Abhorash, but for the others it was tantamount to a slow death. They made good time regardless. Signs of civilisation had become more prevalent. Smoke trails in the distance spoke to the presence of villages and there were signs of the land being cleared. They passed by a number of mounted patrols, almost identical to Vorag’s men. The Strigoi were taller and broader than the men of Neferata’s homeland, and paler than many she had seen since. They wore rough, utilitarian clothing and leather armour covered in metal studs that jangled softly as they rode. Scalplocks like Vorag’s were common and she wondered whether he had started the fashion. The riders gave Abhorash and his two warriors a wide berth, and Vorag glared openly at the other vampire, but only when his back was turned and only when he wasn’t tutoring Neferata in the peculiarities of Strigoi culture. Such outright hostility could prove useful, if it were properly focused, she thought.
She kept close to Vorag, plying him with compliments and questions. One in particular she was most interested in getting an answer to. ‘You mentioned others earlier…’ she said. ‘Like us.’ She stroked his forearm as their mounts trotted side-by-side. ‘It has been so long since I have met others of our kind, save those I brought into this life myself.’
‘We are many,’ Vorag said, smiling. ‘It’s Ushoran’s idea of promotion.’
‘Ah,’ Neferata said. In Lahmia, they had purposely kept their numbers small, if only for safety’s sake. ‘Strigos is an aristocracy of the night, then.’
Vorag nodded. ‘Too many, if you ask me. We were few, at first. Then…’ He made a limp gesture. His smile turned feral. ‘Granted, the younger ones don’t last long.’
‘No?’
‘We are a fierce, proud people, my lady,’ Vorag said, gesturing to his scars. He pulled a necklace out from beneath his cuirass and a number of fangs rattled on it. Neferata repressed a look of disgust. Vorag stuffed the gruesome trophies back beneath his armour. ‘We fight as well as we f—’
‘Yes,’ Neferata said as Vorag urged his horse forwards, responding to a shout from one of his men. Personal combat wasn’t unfamiliar to her. Such had been the law of the land in Nehekhara as well, though it had been a bit more organised in the case of her people. An old pain rose to the surface.