‘Would you? He lies as a matter of course,’ Morath said, clutching the tome he held more tightly. ‘He doesn’t care for Mourkain… only for his damned experiments. If he didn’t have the captives from battles and raids he’d take my folk and make monsters of them!’ His voice rose in pitch.
Neferata watched him reassert control of himself. ‘Teach me,’ she said. ‘Teach us.’
‘What?’ Morath said.
Neferata sank down to her knees before him. ‘Teach us, Morath. W’soran will not do it, the jealous old creature. But you can. Teach us your magics, these magics you say that we can do so well, and we will use them in defence of Mourkain and the Strigoi. We will take on the burden of death, even as we are meant to do,’ she said, letting her will add weight to her words. His mind, normally silver-sharp and bright, was dull now, exhausted and weak. It crumbled beneath her subtle assault, her words and pleas mingling with his until Morath of Mourkain could no longer tell his own thoughts from what she had put into his head.
‘I… yes,’ he said hesitantly, his face crumbling. ‘But first we must escape this trap.’
‘Leave that to me,’ Neferata said, rising to her feet. She looked at Layla and Rasha, both of whom still looked exhausted and weak, though that was changing as they bathed in the raw death-stuff dripping from the floating nightmare forms which surrounded them. ‘Sisters, will you follow me?’
‘Always, my lady,’ Rasha said hoarsely. Layla nodded, her eyes blazing with hunger. Neferata looked to Morath, but he lay on the dais, barely breathing. The necromancer would be of no further help. The dead looked to her silently, their wills bound to hers by Morath’s magic.
‘Then it is time to remind these creatures that they rule here only at our sufferance,’ Neferata said, raising her sword as small, vicious shapes scuttled into the throne room in a verminous tide. They came in a chattering wave, much as they had before, albeit in greater numbers. The front rank of the creatures halted as they caught sight of the newly risen dead and those behind stumbled into them. Neferata seized the opportunity and gestured sharply. ‘Take them,’ she snarled.
Before the vermin could react, Rasha and Layla leapt to the attack, and the dead moved with them in an eerie, creaking harmony. Rasha stretched out an arm and impaled a quivering rat-thing on her blade. With a growl she yanked it up and let the writhing, squealing form slide down her weapon’s length. Layla chopped heads and tails with gleeful abandon, covering herself in the foul blood of the creatures like a child playing in mud. The dead men hewed and hacked at their scurrying enemies with something that might have been personal animosity. Though the creatures they had once fought were long dead and gone, the current generation of ratkin knew just who — and what — it was that they faced and long-buried fear burst through their veneer of menace, puncturing their courage and sending many fleeing into side passages and tunnels, their shrieks and cries adding to the cacophony of the conflict.
Neferata watched the slaughter unfold in satisfaction. The ratkin broke within moments, their organised ranks falling into a disorderly rout. They fled in all directions, and those who didn’t do so fast enough were trampled underfoot. Neferata knew that it was only surprise that had allowed her tiny force to accomplish such a defeat. She also knew that it wouldn’t last long. The rats had lurked in the walls of Nagashizzar for too long; they wouldn’t give up that easily. It was time they took their leave.
She sheathed her blade and stooped, scooping up Morath as easily as a mother might lift a child. Her flesh quivered as she stepped back from the throne; again she saw the shadowy shape there, its skull wreathed in smoke and flame, and her heart, long since dead and still, shuddered in its cage of bone. Then the moment passed and the throne was empty.
She spun and moved swiftly towards the doors, followed by her handmaidens. The spectral warriors charged ahead in silence, clearing the path. For the first time in centuries, the dead marched in Nagashizzar, and they brought misery with them to those who had thought themselves secure in their mastery. As they made their way out of Nagashizzar, the whispers began again, stronger, as if the touch of dark magic had given them a strength they had previously been lacking.
‘I am coming,’ Neferata hissed in reply. And somewhere, in the darkness, something cried out in triumph.
THIRTEEN
The spear licked out, its blade surmounted by a halo of dust and smoke. Neferata barely brought her sword up in time, driving the spear-point into the mast behind her. It hammered home, cracking wood. The crack widened as the spear was jerked free by its wielder.
The druchii hissed and lunged again, his lean body driving the spear towards her belly with inhuman speed. Neferata caught the haft, just below the blade, and guided it around her even as her sword came up and pierced the druchii’s side. The elf bucked in agony and Neferata ripped her sword free, letting her opponent fall.
Neferata stepped over the body and looked out over the deck. The port of Sartosa was aflame as the druchii raiders ravaged the city, looking for loot and slaves. More of the pale, black-eyed elves charged across the deck towards her. They had butchered the remaining crew easily, but were finding Neferata and her handmaidens to be an altogether tougher breed of opponent. She had faced the creatures before, in the Shark Straits. They raided the coasts of Araby with depressing regularity and had taken a number of vessels that she considered hers. She considered this to be a form of belated justice.
A white-haired elf woman ran towards Neferata, shrieking in what might have been delight. Curved blades connected with Neferata’s sword, the force of the blow nearly knocking her from her feet. The elf spat something in her own liquid tongue and Neferata responded by shoving aside her opponent’s swords and lunging, snake-swift, to clamp her jaws on the elf’s throat. She was careful not to gulp down the blood that burst into her mouth, having seen the effects it had had on one of her handmaidens who hadn’t been so cautious. The vampire had collapsed as if drugged, and had yet to awaken.
Neferata tossed her head, ripping the elf’s throat out. The elf slumped, clutching at the spurting hole in her jugular. Neferata spat out what was in her mouth and shoved the dying elf to the side. The others, clad in scaly cloaks and dark armour, hesitated. Neferata smiled, blood staining her face. ‘Kill them for me, my sweets,’ she spat.
The ghouls burst out of the open hold behind the elves, their slimy paws tangling in the cloaks and their talons hooking the ornate armour. The druchii turned on this new threat with remarkable aplomb, but surprise and numbers were on the ghouls’ side. The struggling elves were either torn apart there or they were pulled into the dank hold, to be devoured alive if she judged their screams correctly. The ghouls were hungry, having had little to eat beyond rats or the cast-off members of the crew once Neferata and her followers had finished with them.
The screams of the druchii ringing in her ears, she found her gaze sliding east, where distant mountains climbed into the clouds. In the tongue of the Sartosans, they were the ‘Mountains-at-World’s-End’. Something seemed to flash between those distant peaks and she felt a jolt. It had merely been a reflection from the fire off the water, she thought.