‘What?’ he said again.

‘You were never fleet of thought, my champion. That these men should show up on the path the dwarfs were taking to Mourkain is too much of a coincidence,’ Neferata said slowly, as if speaking to a child. She recalled Vorag’s eyes as he had caught sight of Razek. ‘They were looking for them, weren’t they? An escort… and you were out here to escort the escort, but why? Oh, I smell Ushoran, and not just on that lout’s blood…’ She grinned. ‘Does he not trust his own disciple?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Or perhaps it’s you who doesn’t trust him, hmm?’

Abhorash’s face went still and stiff and Neferata knew that she had again struck a nerve. ‘Well, regardless, I have saved you the trouble of finding him. Let’s deliver him together, shall we? I should like to see my esteemed Lord of Masks once more.’

Abhorash’s men looked to him for orders, and for a moment, Neferata wondered whether his hatred of her would outweigh his common sense. If so, she would be forced to kill them and perhaps him. The former was certain, the latter… not so much. Of all the first immortals, Abhorash was perhaps the only one who could match her. It was a shame that he was such a hidebound fool.

Abhorash snorted and waved his men back. ‘Sheathe your swords, Lutr, Walak.’ He looked at Vorag, distaste evident on his face. ‘And someone help the Bloodytooth up.’

‘Are you sure this is wise?’ Naaima said, joining Neferata. Her fingers toyed with the hilt of her sword and she eyed Abhorash’s broad back speculatively.

‘Of course it’s not, but the time for wisdom has long since passed,’ Neferata said. ‘She who hesitates is lost, after all.’

Naaima snorted. Neferata glanced at her, then away, choosing to ignore the jibe. ‘The Bloodytooth,’ she said, nodding to the brute as his men helped him up. He shook them off with snarls and curses.

‘A barbarian,’ Naaima said.

‘And a vampire,’ Neferata said, rubbing a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth and examining it between her fingers. Vorag, on his feet again, looked at her and his gaze became speculative. Then he grimaced and rubbed the still-bleeding wounds her fingertips had made in his face.

‘He’s not used to it yet. He barely knows more than Anmar. He is stupid,’ Naaima said.

‘Or Ushoran has not taught him all that he is capable of.’ Neferata licked her fingers clean. ‘Interesting, that…’

Naaima looked at her. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘You know me well enough to know that, sweet Naaima,’ Neferata said, stroking the other’s cheek briefly. ‘I am seeking the advantage.’

As she turned away, she caught sight of the black sun and it seemed to pull at her more strongly than ever. It loomed large, larger than it ever had before, and seemed intent on swallowing the moon and the stars. Neferata blinked and looked away, but to no avail. It flickered and invaded her vision from every angle. She could hear it now, as well, a sibilant drone that invaded her thoughts. She shook her head, unable to discern the words she knew lurked within the sound.

The darkness at the heart of the sun squirmed and she was reminded of the great asps’ nests that sat beneath the floors of the temple to Asaph. Slithering shapes coiled and pulsed in the belly of the black sun. They were vague things and stirred in her a fear such as she had not felt even when Alcadizzar’s knife had plucked at her heart. They writhed like pain-contorted bodies in a fire-pit, or perhaps corpses trying to pull themselves from the earth.

Hurry, Neferata, the voice seemed to say. Watching the shapes, she thought of the dead men that W’soran had wrenched from their slumber of ages and set upon Alcadizzar’s forces in that final, great battle. Something in the darkness seemed to latch on to this thought. The blackness stretched towards her from over the mountains, speeding towards her, faster and faster.

Neferata wanted to run, to flee, but she was rooted to the spot. The needle-on-bone voice was back, digging into her hindbrain like a butcher’s hook into meat. It wanted something from her, something important. What did it want? What?

‘What do you want?’ she whispered.

‘You hear it as well,’ Abhorash said. He had dismounted, and led his horse by its reins.

She looked up. ‘Hear what, my champion?’ she said, forcing a smile as she shoved the sibilant, sharp whispers aside.

‘Don’t call me that,’ he said. ‘And do not play games with me.’ He gazed steadily at her, as if searching for the answer in her face. ‘Why are you here?’ he said softly, rubbing his horse’s nose. There was a wary look in his eyes, and a bubble of laughter rose up in her.

‘Why am I not dead and buried beneath the Arabyan sands, you mean?’ She glanced at Khaled. ‘You taught him well.’

Abhorash said nothing. Neferata moved closer to him. ‘Then, you did what you always do — you left. You left those who were counting on you. And I stayed, and made the best of it.’ She showed her fangs and Abhorash looked away. ‘Is that shame, warrior? Or embarrassment?’

Abhorash’s gaze snapped back towards her, hot and angry. ‘Neither. It is disgust.’

Neferata hissed. ‘It is I who should be disgusted!’ She leaned close. ‘If you hadn’t left—’

‘I left because I was no longer fit to stay!’ he thundered. Neferata stepped back, blinking. The raw pain in Abhorash’s voice was hard to ignore. ‘None of us were,’ he said, looking away. ‘We should have all left. I should have made you. If I had…’

‘If you had, Nagash still would have done as he did, and Nehekhara would still be dead,’ Neferata said. ‘And we would be dead with it.’

‘We belong dead,’ Abhorash said. Neferata said nothing. ‘It is the pyramid,’ he said after a moment, abruptly switching topics.

‘And what pyramid are you referring to?’ Neferata said, not looking at him.

‘You’ll see it soon enough,’ he grunted, turning back to his horse. ‘You want to go to Mourkain, after all.’

‘Feel free to talk about it anyway,’ she said. ‘What is it, Abhorash? Did it call you as well?’ An unintended note of pleading entered her voice and she cursed herself for the weakness. ‘Does it come to you in your dreams?’

He shifted uncomfortably. She relented, seeing that he would not speak of it. ‘Tell me about Mourkain,’ she said. ‘Tell me about Ushoran.’

‘He has made himself king over these people,’ Abhorash said. ‘Savages mostly, though their culture is not as degenerate as some in these mountains,’ he added. He was looking at Vorag as he said it.

‘And Strigos,’ she said.

‘Their name for themselves,’ Abhorash said. ‘The Strigoi of Strigos, and Mourkain is their capital.’ He looked at her. ‘They are a hardy people.’

‘They speak Nehekharan,’ she said.

‘A debased form, yes, I suppose they do,’ Abhorash said.

‘And you don’t find that curious?’

‘I hadn’t given it much thought. Settra had outposts farther north than this in his time,’ Abhorash said, as if that explained everything. ‘In time, they might even be as our people are. Were,’ he added, frowning. Neferata grimaced. The people of Nehekhara were dead and gone now. They were dust and bones, thanks to Nagash.

‘And now Ushoran rules them,’ she said. ‘How did that come about, I wonder?’

Abhorash looked at her. ‘Does it disturb you?’

‘Doesn’t it you? Oh, I forgot, you’re his champion now, aren’t you?’

Abhorash growled. Neferata met his glare and held it. ‘It won’t work, you know. Not with him. Ushoran is no more a king than—’

‘Than you are a queen,’ Abhorash bit out. ‘Not now and never again.’ He took her hand. ‘Neferata…’

She yanked her hand free of his grip. ‘No one touches me without my permission, my champion,’ she said.

‘As I have said, I am no longer your champion,’ he said, letting his hand drop to his sword’s pommel.

‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘You are Ushoran’s champion now.’