Neferata felt a strange sense of recognition and realised that Nagashizzar and Mourkain shared more than a legacy of death; Kadon, whether he had known it or not, had recreated Nagash’s citadel in his own crude fashion. Thus, when they reached the antechamber to Nagash’s throne room she knew it at once for what it was.
She barrelled through a thick curtain of spider-webs and dust, sliding across a rough stone floor on her feet and hand, her claws leaving thin canyons in the stone. She tossed Morath down. ‘On your feet, necromancer, we’re here.’
Morath climbed to his feet and held up the glowing hand. The corpse-light illuminated a great swathe of the massive chamber. It was a crude parody of the antechamber to the throne room of the great palace of Khemri. Even Nagash, it seemed, had not been immune to nostalgia.
The doors to the throne room were little more than unfinished slabs of bronze now gone green from verdigris and their hinges were braided sinew, long since fossilised into immobility. Morath hesitated, staring up at them. Strange char marks covered them, and he said, ‘There was a battle here.’
Neferata looked at him. ‘Can you open them?’ she said flatly.
‘W’soran taught me,’ Morath said. ‘It will take me a few minutes, however. I am weak,’ he added, at her look. ‘These past weeks have been difficult. I am merely mortal, woman, unlike you.’
‘Why did you volunteer to come with me, Morath? W’soran wanted to send Melkhior, and in truth that might have been more convenient,’ Neferata said, annoyed.
‘W’soran is frightened,’ Morath said, looking at the door. ‘He fears the crown and its hold on Ushoran. Aye, and on him as well, and you,’ he added. ‘He is planning something. To flee, I think. And when he goes, only some of his students will go with him. The others will be disposed of.’
‘You want protection,’ Neferata said.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Morath looked at her. ‘Isn’t that why you came to Mourkain?’
‘No,’ Neferata said.
Morath grunted. ‘No, I suppose not, eh? Well, you’ll soon get what you want, won’t you?’
‘And you’ll get what you want,’ Neferata said. ‘I’ll need an advisor, Morath. A man who knows his people as well as you seem to would be invaluable.’
Morath looked at her. ‘Do not offer what you cannot promise.’
Neferata sniffed. ‘Can I not? When the crown is mine—’
‘You will not be you any longer. Or so W’soran says,’ Morath said darkly. ‘Even Ushoran is not Ushoran. Not any more. He grows less and less like the man I once served, and more like the thing he is — bestial and rapacious and too hungry for this world.’
‘But you could keep me from becoming that way, Morath of Mourkain,’ Neferata said, clutching his arm. ‘Unlike Ushoran, I know how to listen to those who serve me!’
‘Really? Because you ignored the fears of your handmaidens to undertake this journey,’ Morath said. He jerked his arm free of her grip. ‘I must concentrate.’ He stretched out a pale, thin hand and stroked the air. A pall of dust rose, puffing from the edges of the doors. Then, with a groan as deep as the mountain itself, the long-immobile doors began to move. They rumbled inwards, shaking the ground beneath Neferata’s feet.
Flagstones of black marble paved the path inwards, and the path itself was lined with elaborate and grotesque columns which stretched up into the darkness to support the arched ceiling. Morath’s wheezing breath echoed strangely in the space. Neferata strode ahead of him, her eyes adjusting easily to the darkness.
The room itself had seen much activity, despite the sealed doors. There were great gaping holes in the stone walls and immense char marks scored the spots where there were no holes. The black marble on the floor had been seared to slag in places and more than one of the columns had tumbled into pieces. Intuition told her that the rat-men had likely burrowed through Nagash’s throne room after the Great Necromancer’s death, and they had left evidence of their presence, including piles of old droppings and huddled, miserable piles of gnawed bones.
The centre of the room was marked by the presence of more than a dozen ancient corpses, scattered haphazardly in a rough circle. Morath grabbed her arm as she started forwards. ‘Abn-i-khat,’ he whispered, pointing with the skeletal hand. A glowing stain marked the floor.
She kicked a body aside and it crumbled into dust. ‘What was this?’
‘A rite of some kind was conducted here. But it was interrupted,’ Morath said, his eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘Perhaps W’soran…?’
‘It would not surprise me,’ Neferata said. W’soran had been chased from Nagashizzar with his tail between his legs, and he was naturally reluctant to discuss it. Her eyes scanned the chamber and were drawn to an ominous presence occupying the far end.
She hissed, and Morath looked to see what had startled her. He swallowed thickly as he saw it and said fearfully, ‘Nagash’s throne…’
The throne of the Undying King occupied the far wall. It was, like the throne of Mourkain, a paean to barbaric splendour. But unlike Mourkain, its majesty was no pallid mockery. Here was the truth of which Mourkain was only a weak echo. The throne was crafted from great blocks of stone and petrified wood and lined with the bones of beasts and men. Ropes of now-brittle human hair had been woven into a cushion and glimmering strands of abn-i-khat ran through its form, casting a faint illumination over the floor all around it. In the first moment that Neferata glimpsed it, a massive shadowy shape seemed to occupy it, only to waver and vanish as Morath’s spell-light passed over it.
‘Magnificent,’ she said, swaying towards it. It drew her in, as if it were calling out to her in a whisper that only she could hear. As she drew close, she felt something shudder through her, and abruptly, her stomach twisted into a painful knot. Pain slithered through her limbs and she staggered. It felt as if a hundred hands were plucking at her flesh, seeking to strip it from her bones. She squalled and felt her body contort and then she staggered, unable to stand.
‘Neferata,’ Morath cried out, grabbing her as she slumped. He dragged her awkwardly back, away from the throne. ‘What—’
‘It’s him!’ she shrieked, shoving him aside and scrambling away from the throne. The feeling of revulsion lessened, and the pain waned. She spat out the black blood that had suddenly filled her mouth, and looked at her arms, where black veins pulsed angrily.
‘Nagash is dead,’ Morath said, looking at the throne.
‘So am I, necromancer,’ Neferata snapped. ‘He’s there. Some part of him is in those stones, clinging like a leech. It’s like a knife scoring my nerves.’
‘I see something,’ Morath said, stepping forwards. She resisted the urge to cringe as he drew close to the throne. ‘Look,’ he said, holding his corpse-light aloft to reveal dust-covered shapes which were spread out around the foot of the throne and spilled down the steps of the dais.
‘What are they?’
‘Tomes,’ Morath muttered, dropping to his knees before the throne. ‘How long have they lain here?’
‘Does it matter?’ She turned away from the throne and gritted her teeth. She could still feel the nauseating sensations. ‘Do what we brought you here to do, and be quick about it!’ As Morath set to clearing the dust and mould from the tomes, she strode towards the doors, wanting to get as far from the throne as possible.
The sounds of battle were growing louder. She felt no fear for her handmaidens. She knew from experience that even the most inexperienced of their kind was far tougher to kill than anything yet living in this mountain. Her blood was strong, and it made others strong as well.
It would make the world strong. She smiled softly at the thought, knowing even as she did so that the thought was not hers. Some small part of her rebelled then, angry. She would not do as Ushoran had done. There would be no aristocracy of the night, battening fat on the blood of mortals. That way lay stagnation and cessation. That way lay rebellion and danger.