As an immortal, she had become used to having a wealth of time to contemplate such gambits, but now, time was at a premium. How long would it take her homeland to die? How long until an army of rotting, plague-infested corpses stumbled across the sea of sand and scratched at the walls of the Arabyan caliphates?
If she could take Bel Aliad — and from there the other caliphates — and unify them into a mighty kingdom, then she might be able to stop him. She might be the only one who could. Ordinarily, pitting herself against Nagash would be the last thing on her mind. But her experience in the desert had taught her that there was nowhere to run. Nagash was the wolf at the door of the world.
Then, there was the fact that the Great Necromancer had insulted her. And no man, alive or dead, insulted Neferata and lived.
She would take Araby and her peoples and forge them into a sword to thrust into Nagash’s sour, black heart—
The arrow caught her by surprise, sprouting as if by magic from her thigh. Another slapped home in her chest, nearly wrenching her from her saddle. She looked up. Archers made ready on the sloping rooftops of the buildings nearest the barricades. She gestured with her sword and Naaima kicked her horse into a gallop, leading Rasha and a few others towards the closest of the bowmen. Naaima leapt from her mount to the edge of the roof. Arrows sped towards her and her sword knocked them from the air as she attacked the unprepared archers. Men screamed and died as the other handmaidens followed suit.
Neferata growled in satisfaction. She urged her horse forwards. The defenders were falling back now, though not in an organised fashion, and retreating towards one of the city’s many market squares. Men trampled one another in their haste to escape the attacking tribesmen. Bloodlust stirred in her and she gave herself up to it gladly. She had restrained herself for months now, whetting her appetite for the coming bloodletting. Now she unleashed the pent-up aggression, flogging her horse forwards after the fleeing warriors. She hacked at their backs and upraised limbs, sheathing her arm in a sleeve of red.
She was laughing when the first lance caught her horse in its chest. It squealed and fell, forcing her to dive from the saddle. She sprang to her feet, sword licking out. The armoured Kontoi of Bel Aliad had arrived. The lancers wore robes sewn through with flat iron plates and heavy helmets that covered their faces. Their lances were weighty spears of wood that could bring down even the heaviest horse. They met the nomads in a tangle of metal and flesh, and the Kontoi’s greater mass began to prevail. Neferata found herself buffeted by horses and she leapt upwards, her claws snagging a Kontoi’s armoured coat. She snarled into the man’s helmet and then snapped his neck.
The sword nearly chopped through her arm as the dead man fell away from her. The Kontoi wore a finer coat than the others and brightly coloured silks dangled from his helmet in a rainbow halo. The sword seemed to writhe in his hand like a thing alive, and the sigils inscribed on the blade hurt her eyes. What was this? What was it—?
She fell back as the warrior swung at her again. The blade sizzled as it cut the air and it seemed to shiver. She fell from the horse and slid between its legs. She slashed the warrior’s saddle strap with her claws, sending him crashing to the ground. The square was filled with heaving, stamping horses and men and the sky was growing dark. Night was falling.
She rose, flinging back her hood. The Kontoi scrambled to his feet. He had lost his sword in the fall. With a yell, he dived for it even as she lunged for him, catching it up as she landed on him. She spun him around and hurled him into a wall hard enough to crack the brick. The warrior staggered, but remained standing.
Neferata eyed him warily. Her arm was slow to heal, and black froth collected in the open wound as steam rose from it. It ached abominably. She had been hurt in such a way only once before, when she had faced Alcadizzar before the gates of Lahmia and he had driven a knife into her heart. The sword was something fell and old. It was of foreign design, reminding her of the weapons she had seen in the marketplaces of Cathay, brought from the forges of the lands beyond the Great Bastion. Perhaps it was a daemon weapon of some kind, then. She would have more time to study it after she had torn it from the dead hands of its current wielder.
She stood up straight and stalked slowly towards him. ‘You fight well, warrior,’ she said, extending a hand. ‘Tell me your name, won’t you?’
The man hesitated. Her eyes caught his, holding them. She pressed her will down the length of the distance between them, hammering his. Slowly, almost grudgingly, he pulled his helmet off and tossed it aside, revealing a handsome, hawkish face. He was young. ‘I am Khaled al Muntasir, witch, and I am your death!’ he said, raising the sword. The blade shook ever so slightly, straining towards her like a dog on a leash. Khaled was sweating from more than just exertion. She could taste his fear, not just of her, but also of the weapon he held.
‘If you fear it so much, why not lay it aside, Khaled al Muntasir?’ she said. Her voice caressed him, piercing his mind and soul. She could do much with her voice. It had allowed her to conquer without raising a single weapon. But it took time to do it properly, and time was something she did not have. She reached out towards Khaled. ‘Put the blade down, boy,’ she purred, letting the soft tones envelop him. ‘Put it down…’
He blinked and trembled. She was impressed. His resistance was remarkable. Then, perhaps that was the influence of the sword. She would have to learn where he had obtained it. Such a potent weapon might be useful in the coming days—
He lashed out. She narrowly stepped aside and hissed as she felt the foul heat clinging to the blade. She slashed him across the face and he cried out. She grabbed his sword hand and pushed the blade away. Her other hand found his throat and forced him back against the wall. She looked into his eyes, flattening his will beneath her own. The sword was loose in his grip. She made to shake his arm, but a shout stopped her before she could.
‘Neferata, look out!’ Naaima screamed from somewhere above.
Neferata spun, only to catch a lance full in the chest. She was slammed backwards into the wall. A scream burst out of her as the lance buried itself in her ribcage and burst out through her back, pinning her to the wall. Her screams pealed wildly as she thrashed and struggled like a bug caught on a pin. She clawed at the wood desperately. Her feet were too far above the ground and her mind was too disordered by the pain to effect a shape-change.
Khaled chopped down on the lance. He shattered it, but she was still pinned. Coughing, blood and foam running down her front, she reached for him. Horror in his eyes, he stepped back and readied the sword. It made a hungry sound as it pierced her heart.
It was only as the darkness closed in that she saw the hand that had wielded the lance that had pinned her. She carried Abhorash’s frown down into the dark with her…
‘It was risky,’ Naaima said, sipping delicately out of a cup. ‘You are far too incautious, Neferata. He would have been well within his rights to have killed you. Abhorash—’