Neferata turned. A broad-shouldered, broken-nosed man trotted towards them, thumbs hooked into a wide leather belt. He had a number of guards with him, dressed as Abhorash’s men, in heavy armour and ornate helms. They pushed through the crowd like sharks through a school of fish. Neferata inhaled his scent and repressed an instinctive curl of her lip. Like Vorag, there was a grave-mould whiff to the newcomer. It was a deep stink that Razek either didn’t notice or, perhaps, put down to a more human stench.
‘Mourkain extends its greetings and its sorrows on your loss, mighty thane,’ the man said, spreading his palm and bowing his head. ‘We shall scour the hills for the beasts who—’
‘Already taken care of, Strezyk,’ Razek said brusquely, gesturing to Neferata.
‘Oh?’ Strezyk glanced at Neferata, who stood. The other vampire stepped back a half-step, his eyes widening slightly. ‘Vorag mentioned newcomers, but—’
‘I bear the Strigoi no grudge for this,’ Razek continued, more formally. ‘Our negotiations will continue as planned.’
Strezyk opened his mouth as if to admonish the dwarf for speaking in front of Neferata, but then closed it with a snap. Collecting himself, he again looked at her. ‘And who might you be?’
‘Neferata of Lahmia,’ she said. Strezyk paused then shook himself.
‘Hetman Ushoran has been waiting for your arrival,’ he said, a patently false smile spreading across his broad features.
‘He was expecting us?’ Neferata said, slightly surprised.
‘Oh yes, he has been aware of your coming for many weeks now,’ Strezyk said smoothly. ‘I shall escort you to the High Lodge.’
Neferata’s thoughts crashed together fast and sharp. Was Ushoran then the cause of her visions? Was he compelling her to come to him somehow? Her hands clenched and her nails sank into her skin. The pain brought her back to herself a moment later. Was it Ushoran’s voice in her head, crooning to her?
‘He’s a greased spoke and no two ways there,’ Razek muttered, too low for Strezyk to hear. The armoured soldiers, the vojnuk according to what Vorag had taught her, formed up around them, not so close as to be insulting, but not so far as to be ignored.
‘Who is he?’ Neferata said.
‘The new king’s hearth-warden,’ Razek said, distaste evident.
Neferata grunted, understanding what he meant, though she had never heard the term before. So, Ushoran had his own Lord of Masks now, did he? Maybe Strezyk was more cunning than his master, but Neferata doubted it. ‘Tell me about the new king,’ she said.
‘Why don’t you tell me?’ Razek said, eyeing her. ‘He seems to be a friend of yours, eh?’
Neferata looked at the dwarf, but said nothing. King Ushoran. The thought was neither amusing, nor pleasant. In Lahmia, Ushoran had served as her shadowed left hand, as Abhorash was her strong right one. It was Ushoran who had gathered those who were chosen to sacrifice their lives and blood to the Lahmian Court, so that the sun would rise and the world would turn and the city prosper. It was Ushoran who had failed to find Alcadizzar after the latter had escaped her clutches and it was Ushoran who had ruined everything by turning Nagash’s eye upon them.
Ushoran had destroyed Lahmia. He had destroyed her kingdom and now, he welcomed her to his. One way or another, she was determined to make him regret it. She turned back to the city. The streets of Mourkain were like lines drawn on parchment, crossing one another over and over again. The city was a spiral of stone, with crude thatch huts and lean-tos giving way to more sturdy stone dwellings and finally the great buildings that seemed to form the heart of the city. The streets were choked with the smells and sights and sounds of a thriving, vibrant metropolis.
The Strigoi were an uncivilised-looking folk, but sturdy. Hardy, even, and their blood pumped bright in their veins as Neferata examined them. They all carried weapons, even the lowest among them, and they were a pale folk, with dark hair. A young people, as hers judged such things, barely out of the mire of the caves. But they had accomplished much in a short period of time.
And all, apparently, without the help of the gods; she saw no sign of temples or priests. The priestess in her rebelled at the thought… though she had long since turned from her own gods, the idea of them not even being represented was hard to grasp. Indeed, it was a weakness. A people with no faith were open to exploitation. She gave a soft laugh. These were thoughts for the future.
As they moved through the city, Neferata’s followers rejoined her, slipping between Strezyk’s men to form a barrier between their mistress and the armoured warriors. The column thinned as they approached the centre of the city; Vorag’s men stayed behind, in the lower streets, but Strezyk led Neferata and her companions on. The burly vampire gave her a grin and a wave as he departed. He had noticed Strezyk’s presence, and seemed to know what it meant. Abhorash and his two men, however, followed at a distance, staying a respectful distance from Strezyk’s group. She wondered if her former champion thought that she might try and flee.
When she saw the pyramid, she knew that the answer was ‘yes’.
Neferata was careful not to let her emotions show on her face as she looked up at the monstrosity of stone. It rose up suddenly, like a leopard springing from a tree. It was a massive structure, bristling with outcroppings and crude structural additions that seemed to serve no purpose save ornament.
It was a pyramid in name only; the resemblance was a superficial one. It was a crude mockery of the great pyramids of Nehekhara, devised by barbaric minds and built by unskilled hands. Heavy dark stones had been piled atop one another much like the grim barrows which dotted the northern lands. It careened high above the city, and stable growths of structure flourished along its length. There were narrow windows and balconies and things that might have been towers.
It crouched like a beast over the winding river which encircled and ran through Mourkain, and the rest of the city seemed to recoil from it, as if in fear. She knew at once, with an instinct honed by years of dealing with dark magics and ill omens, that this was the source of the black sun that had so tormented her.
‘This is bigger than I remember,’ Razek said, looking up at the pyramid. ‘Old Kadon built it, the mad bugger. Back before we stopped coming here…’ He trailed off, clutching his axe more tightly.
‘This way, if you please,’ Strezyk said, leading them towards the ornate doors that marked the entrance to the pyramid. As they neared them, Neferata felt something dark and beautiful surround her, like a bouquet of poisonous blossoms. The pain of earlier was swept aside by a rush of strange pleasure. She reached out to touch the rock and was rewarded by a pleasant tingle.
This, this was why she had come here. This place… Whatever was within called to her.
A clash of spears brought her back to herself. Men in ornate bronze armour blocked the doorway, their spears crossed over the aperture. ‘I thought you said that Ushoran wished to see us,’ Neferata said to Strezyk.
He nodded. ‘He wishes to see you, my lady, and Thane Silverfoot as well, of course. But not your — ah — followers,’ he said. He gestured, and his men moved to surround and separate Naaima and the others. Khaled had his hand on his sword and the others looked to Neferata. Strezyk’s men weren’t vampires, and the fight would be swift, if it came. Neferata looked to Abhorash.
‘I will vouchsafe you,’ he said. ‘Not that you need it.’ He rubbed the dent she had put in his armour and for just a moment, some of the humour of old was there in his eyes. ‘It’s tradition.’
Neferata sniffed and looked at Naaima. ‘I will be fine,’ she said, nodding sharply.
‘Of course you will,’ Strezyk said. He waved a hand and the spears were retracted. ‘You are safer here than anywhere else, my lady. Hetman Ushoran has ensured it.’ The oily unctuous tone put her teeth on edge, but she said nothing. Fuming, she followed Strezyk. Naaima and the others stayed behind, guarded by Strezyk’s men.