Neferata hit the ground and bounced to her feet with a hiss. She swept her sword from its sheath and slashed wildly at her attacker. He snarled and met her steel with his own. They traded blows, reeling back and forth across the snow.

Bloody froth collected at the corners of his mouth as he snarled at her. She heard sinew-strings rub against wood as arrows were fitted into bows. She hissed in frustration. Then, with a wild cry, her opponent lunged, his sword descending towards her.

Neferata caught his thick wrist and held it. He mimicked her, grabbing her wrist as her sword dug for his heart. His eyes bulged and black veins stood out on his pale skin as he tried to match her strength.

‘Neferata—’ Naaima began, rushing towards her.

‘Get the archers!’ Neferata snarled.

Her handmaidens sprang to obey. Stregga and Rasha raced towards the horsemen as a number of arrows leapt to meet them. The women dived and twisted, their shapes blurring. The sound of bones snapping and skin ripping filled the air and then they were among the horses, setting them to bucking and squealing and their riders to clinging on for dear life.

Naaima set herself between Neferata and the other riders, her blade swatting arrows from the air. Neferata, free to ignore Vorag’s men, concentrated on the other vampire. She was stronger, she knew. Indeed, it was all he could do to keep her at bay. No longer distracted, she smiled at him and easily jerked her hand free of his grip. She dropped her sword and placed her free hand against his face. ‘Bow, Vorag of Strigos,’ she said. ‘Bow or die, such is the way of our kind. Has the one who made you not taught you that?’ She leaned close. ‘Submit, and I will teach you many things…’

Vorag frothed as he struggled. He snapped and whined like a wild animal in Neferata’s clutch. She shook him slightly, with no sign of effort, and his sword fell from his grip. He grabbed for her wrist and her fingers stabbed into his head like bilge-hooks. Vorag screamed as she lifted him off his feet by the flesh of his face. His men sat frozen, awestruck by the sight of their leader being handled as if he were a dog.

‘Enough,’ someone said, then, louder, ‘Enough, my queen!’ Naaima shouted.

Neferata dropped Vorag and turned, licking blood from her fingers. ‘Yes, quite so, Naaima. I think I have made my point.’ She looked at her fingers. ‘That tastes familiar.’ She sank to her haunches, grabbed Vorag’s scalplock and jerked his head up. ‘Who gave you the blood-kiss, man of Strigos?’

Vorag spat a curse and she tightened her grip and slammed his head into the ground. Jerking him up again, she said, ‘Who?’

‘Ushoran, my queen,’ a deep voice rumbled. Neferata froze. Then, she uncoiled and rose, still holding tight to Vorag’s scalplock. She glanced over her shoulder. The others were standing near Naaima, separated from Vorag’s men by a newly arrived trio of armoured figures on horseback who watched them all with red gazes. Their armour was cruelly ornate and stained red, with a heavy cuirass of flaring ridges and curved edges over a suit of long mail. The tallest of the three men urged his horse forwards. As one, the human warriors dropped from their saddles to kneel in the snow, heads bowed. Like Vorag and Neferata and her followers, the newcomers were vampires, though as different from Neferata’s people as dusk from dawn.

Naaima and the others drew back, disconcerted by the sheer malevolent power radiating from the armoured man. The fanged visor of a winged helm was flipped up, revealing a noble, if brutal face. ‘My queen,’ he said again. There was no respect in his voice. The title was delivered grudgingly and the words were bitten off.

‘Abhorash,’ Neferata said harshly. And then, more softly, ‘My champion…’ Abhorash looked different than the last time she had seen him. Stronger, perhaps. As with herself, the years since the fall of Lahmia had burned him clean of imperfection. He was every inch the warrior; every movement spoke to potential violence, every word was a thrust of steel.

He had always been handsome, after a fashion, with solid features scooped to a point, like some great bird of prey wearing a human mask. In her youth, she had been enamoured of him, but childish fancy had faded into mature discontent as she grew to know him better. As she saw his weaknesses for what they were, rather than for the nobility he claimed to possess.

Her mind reeled at the sight of him. What was he doing here? How had he got here? Was he following the black sun as well? Question after question splashed across her mind but with a shake of her head she thrust them aside; now was no time for questions.

‘Surprised to see me?’ Abhorash said grimly. His voice was strained, as if some great roiling fount of emotion were hidden beneath his façade of arrogance.

‘Seeing as you were intent on dying gloriously the last time I spoke with you… no,’ Neferata said. ‘You always were a disappointment.’ The jibe was meant to cut, and by the flicker of expression that flitted across his face, she knew it had struck home. He had never taken easily to immortality, though he had desired it strongly enough in the beginning. For a warrior he was surprisingly squeamish regarding the more practical aspects of eternity. Or he had been, at least. He looked hale and hearty enough now, and stank of blood as surely as she herself did. ‘Ushoran made this?’ she said.

‘He has made many,’ Abhorash said, faintly disapproving.

Neferata hesitated. She looked down at Vorag. He had said that this land was a gift. Whose gift, Ushoran’s? He had mentioned other names as well… Strezyk and Gashnag. Were they more vampires? The implications were unpleasant.

Abhorash grunted and gestured to Vorag. ‘Release him.’

‘Who are you to give me orders, champion?’ Neferata said, jerking Vorag’s head viciously. The vampire groaned and she wondered at Abhorash’s words — was this creature truly one of Ushoran’s get? Had that conniving little rat made a nest for himself somewhere in these mountains?

‘Not your champion. Not any more. Release him, woman, or I will be forced to—’ Abhorash rumbled, fingers caressing the serpentine pommel of the blade sheathed at his side.

‘Die? Wouldn’t that be a shame,’ Khaled said, drawing his own sword and sliding between Neferata and Abhorash.

‘Move, boy,’ Abhorash grated, his dark eyes blazing. He blinked as if in recognition. Khaled hesitated, but stood firm.

‘Ahhhhh,’ Neferata breathed. ‘I see you know my new champion, Abhorash.’

‘You are as profligate as Ushoran,’ Abhorash rumbled.

‘I was only finishing the job you started,’ Neferata spat, and Khaled twitched.

Abhorash shrugged, like a wolf shaking off an insect bite. ‘Release Timagal Vorag,’ he said again. Abhorash’s two companions urged their mounts forwards, drawing their own swords. Neferata’s eyes glowed like lamps, and her lips had writhed back from her fangs. Violence hung on the air, palpable and terrible. The humans had gone white and they trembled, like field-mice caught between duelling cats.

‘Whose champion are you now, Abhorash?’ Neferata said. ‘Are you Ushoran’s dog now?’

‘I am no dog, queen of nothing,’ Abhorash snarled, hunching forwards in his saddle.

Neferata abruptly released Vorag and stepped past Khaled towards the litter where Razek still slept, unawares. Abhorash blinked, surprise writ on his features.

‘What—?’

‘He said he was going to Mourkain,’ said Neferata. ‘He and his people were ambushed by a group of those twisted beast-men that seem to infest these mountains. They all died, save him.’ She looked at Abhorash shrewdly. ‘You were out here looking for him, weren’t you?’