Several thousand of the nomads flocked to her night-black banners now. Some hailed her as the personification of the Desert Snake, others called her Mother Night. It was all the same to Neferata. As long as they served, they could call her what they liked.

She looked over at the body of the young outpost warden from whom she had been supping. He was cold now, and blank-eyed. She clucked her tongue; she had taught Alcadizzar better than that, she had thought. The nomads of the Great Desert rose and fell like the tides, and their loyalties with them. It had been some time since some of their number had given shelter to the fugitive Rasetran prince, and the impositions he had made since — curtailing their traditions of raid and plunder — had put many of them in a hostile mood.

Instead of bolstering the outposts, however, he had begun to pull his troops into Nehekhara proper. Neferata took a sip of still-warm blood. Something was going on. She could smell it on the wind… There was a carrion stink that put her in mind of old friends. There were rumours flying through the camps, of dead men walking and plague and pox and old evils newly returned. Black smoke had been seen belching from the mountains on the shores of the Sour Sea.

She closed her eyes, considering. Something had turned Alcadizzar’s eyes away to the north. Now was the time to attack. Now was—

The shriek was a monstrous thing, loud enough to flatten men and tents. The wind whipped and curled, hurling sand and sparks into the air. Something massive crossed through the sky above the tent, titan wings beating thunderously.

Neferata leaped to her feet, tossing aside her cup and its dregs of blood and snatching up her sword. She drew the tulwar and tossed aside the goat-hide sheath as she bounded out of her tent, followed closely by Naaima and Rasha and her other handmaidens.

The shrieking thing landed in the centre of the camp. It was as large as three horses and eyes like campfires blazed at the scattering tribesmen as a great spear-blade nose quivered and needle-studded jaws gaped hungrily. Sharp ears unfurled from the square head and its wings were tattered sails. It shrieked again, and several of Neferata’s handmaidens clapped their hands to their ears.

On the back of the bat-creature, a familiar figure sat, jerking the reins to control his obscene mount. Tattered robes did little to conceal the cadaverous nature of the rider and as his sunken features turned towards her Neferata snarled in recognition.

‘W’soran!’ she growled, loping towards her old high priest, murder in her eyes. She leapt up onto one of the great beast’s wings as it slid across the ground near her and scrambled towards its back, her sword at the ready.

‘I bring you greetings, mighty queen,’ W’soran cackled. ‘I bring you greetings from your lord and master, Nagash!’

Neferata sprang towards W’soran, her sword licking out towards his scrawny neck as the name of the Great Necromancer struck a painful chord in her. Black lightning crackled from his talon-like fingers, catching her in mid-leap and flinging her back into her tent, which collapsed atop her. As she floundered free, she saw her handmaidens engaging the laughing maniac and his pet monster. One of her servants was slapped from the air by one of the beast’s talons, her marble form disintegrating from the force of the impact. Neferata screamed and tore her way free of the tent.

As she made to return to the fray, something heavy struck her and flung her forwards. She rolled to her feet and slashed out with her sword, striking only shadows. ‘He sensed you, Neferata,’ Ushoran hissed, crouching some feet away. His bulky form was huddled beneath a thick robe, but she recognised her former advisor well enough. ‘Nagash desires that you join him.’

‘Join, or serve?’ Neferata replied.

‘One is much the same as the other,’ Ushoran said, shrugging.

‘You throw over your loyalties quickly, Lord of Masks,’ Neferata said.

Ushoran growled, and his talons flexed. ‘Lahmia is dead, Neferata. It is ruined and blasted and gone. Just like all of Nehekhara will be, when Nagash gets finished with it!’

Neferata lunged. Ushoran sprang backwards, narrowly avoiding her strike. ‘Nehekhara and Lahmia are mine! Not Nagash’s and not Alcadizzar’s!’

‘You cannot defy his will, Neferata,’ Ushoran said, his claws skittering across her armour. ‘He will have you, one way or another!’

‘Then let him come for me himself!’ Neferata snarled, backhanding Ushoran. He flew backwards, caught by surprise. She spun to see W’soran flinging magical blasts at her handmaidens. As far away as she was, she could smell his desperation. Her handmaidens were fast and strong, neither of which could be applied to the withered vampire. They had expected to overawe her, to strike her dumb with Nagash’s name and their power. But she would not—

YOU WILL.

Neferata screamed as a mind like the cold of the tomb invaded hers. The words echoed and re-echoed, shattering her thoughts. She grabbed her head and staggered. The night spun around her.

YOU WILL SERVE ME.

‘No!’ Neferata howled, clawing at her head. With a despairing scream, she wrenched herself around and began to run, away from the camp, and away from Nehekhara. Away from her plans and hopes and desires, Nagash’s thoughts battering at her as she ran.

Beyond the thunderous crashing of the wild river, Mourkain rose stark from the mountain. The city was surrounded by a heavy wooden palisade in concentric and ever-shrinking rings that jutted from the rocky slope. Smoke rose from within, striping the air with greasy trails. The decaying bodies of orcs and beastmen had been impaled on great, greased stakes lining the approaches to the palisade. The bodies, both bulky and green and malformed and hairy, were in bad condition and a flock of crows had claimed them for their own.

‘They attack every few months,’ Vorag said, swatting at a dangling green leg with his sword. ‘Not big on learning lessons, the urka.’

Neferata said, ‘And the beasts?’

Vorag grinned, displaying his fangs. ‘When the urka are thinned out, the beasts take their place.’ He sheathed his sword.

‘And vice-versa, I assume,’ Neferata said.

‘Ha! Yes,’ Vorag said, laughing and slapping his thigh. ‘The beasts are better hunting, but the urka have a better flavour. Or they did,’ he said, frowning slightly. Neferata smiled knowingly. Vorag glanced at her and his frown deepened. ‘You are strong. The Red Dragon is frightened of you.’

Neferata hesitated. ‘Abhorash, you mean?’

Vorag spat a wad of bloody phlegm to the ground. ‘Yes. That is what the people call him, “the Red Dragon”. Wearing all that iron, like the scales of one of those beasts.’ He shook his head. ‘That’s no way for a warrior to fight,’ he said.

‘You don’t much care for him, do you?’

Vorag’s only reply was to spit again. Neferata chuckled. Before she could reply, the strident groan of horns from the top of the palisade broke the air. Neferata looked to the gates, which were being pushed open by a line of men in dark jerkins and hoods. The smell of men and animals and the detritus left by both washed over Neferata.

‘I’ve smelled nicer dung-heaps,’ Khaled murmured, earning a baleful glare from Vorag.

‘Surely you have not forgotten the smells of a military camp, son of Muntasir,’ Abhorash said, urging his horse forwards. Khaled frowned. Vorag made a similar expression as Abhorash joined them.