Abhorash’s lip curled. ‘No. That particular honour goes to Vorag. I am a mere ajal.’

Neferata cocked her head. ‘Ajal,’ she repeated, tasting the unfamiliar word.

‘It is the Strigoi term for a lesser lord. Ushoran is stingy with titles,’ Abhorash said, smiling thinly.

‘Why?’ she said.

‘Why?’ He seemed puzzled by the question.

‘Yes, Abhorash, why,’ she said. ‘Why serve him at all?’

His eyes shrank to slits. ‘You wouldn’t understand, my queen,’ he said.

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

He turned and strode away, his cloak flaring about him. Neferata watched him go and snorted.

‘He is frightened,’ Naaima said. Neferata looked at her handmaiden. As ever, she had not heard the other woman’s approach. In life, Naaima had been a shadow, and little had changed in death.

‘Abhorash doesn’t know how to be frightened,’ Neferata said, albeit with more uncertainty than she was used to.

‘Then he has learned,’ Naaima said.

Neferata frowned. If Naaima was right, then that boded ill. What was Abhorash frightened of? Did he feel the same hungry pull that she did? Was that what had drawn him to Mourkain?

Do you feel it, Neferata? Do you feel the silent angles of the Corpse Geometries growing sharper about you? The charnel mathematics of Usirian have drawn you here, Neferata…

‘Silence,’ she hissed, closing her eyes. The voice withdrew. Usirian was the god of decay and death. The jackal-headed potentate of graveyards and dead-things; he was no more real than Asaph or Ptra. She pulled her furs tighter about her, suddenly, inexplicably cold.

Neferata and the others were given the horses of those of Vorag’s men killed in battle with the beasts. The animals did not shy when the vampires mounted. Vorag met Neferata’s questioning gaze and said, ‘Hetman Ushoran instituted a breeding programme several years ago. He wanted horses that would be used to our smell.’ He patted his own.

‘That implies that there are enough of us to ride them,’ she said. Hetman meant king, she thought, from the context.

Vorag smiled widely. ‘More than enough, I should say. Everyone important got the bite.’ He chuckled. ‘And more than a few who weren’t.’

‘Which are you?’

Vorag’s face reddened and then he grunted out a laugh. ‘I’d be insulted, but I have a feeling you’d make me pay for it, Lady Neferata.’

‘I would indeed, Timagal Vorag,’ she said. There was much of Ushoran in this creature, or perhaps like simply called to like. She had proven herself the stronger and now Vorag would play nice. At least until her back was turned.

‘I am important,’ he said. ‘The hetman gave me estates and men, which is more than he gave to some agals.’

‘Agal and ajal,’ Neferata murmured, filing the terms away for reference. Even among barbarians there was a hierarchy. ‘Tell me more, Timagal… I would not appear ignorant.’

The ad-hoc column marched at night, out of deference to the immortals. Sunlight could be borne, at least by herself and Abhorash, but for the others it was tantamount to a slow death. They made good time regardless. Signs of civilisation had become more prevalent. Smoke trails in the distance spoke to the presence of villages and there were signs of the land being cleared. They passed by a number of mounted patrols, almost identical to Vorag’s men. The Strigoi were taller and broader than the men of Neferata’s homeland, and paler than many she had seen since. They wore rough, utilitarian clothing and leather armour covered in metal studs that jangled softly as they rode. Scalplocks like Vorag’s were common and she wondered whether he had started the fashion. The riders gave Abhorash and his two warriors a wide berth, and Vorag glared openly at the other vampire, but only when his back was turned and only when he wasn’t tutoring Neferata in the peculiarities of Strigoi culture. Such outright hostility could prove useful, if it were properly focused, she thought.

She kept close to Vorag, plying him with compliments and questions. One in particular she was most interested in getting an answer to. ‘You mentioned others earlier…’ she said. ‘Like us.’ She stroked his forearm as their mounts trotted side-by-side. ‘It has been so long since I have met others of our kind, save those I brought into this life myself.’

‘We are many,’ Vorag said, smiling. ‘It’s Ushoran’s idea of promotion.’

‘Ah,’ Neferata said. In Lahmia, they had purposely kept their numbers small, if only for safety’s sake. ‘Strigos is an aristocracy of the night, then.’

Vorag nodded. ‘Too many, if you ask me. We were few, at first. Then…’ He made a limp gesture. His smile turned feral. ‘Granted, the younger ones don’t last long.’

‘No?’

‘We are a fierce, proud people, my lady,’ Vorag said, gesturing to his scars. He pulled a necklace out from beneath his cuirass and a number of fangs rattled on it. Neferata repressed a look of disgust. Vorag stuffed the gruesome trophies back beneath his armour. ‘We fight as well as we f—’

‘Yes,’ Neferata said as Vorag urged his horse forwards, responding to a shout from one of his men. Personal combat wasn’t unfamiliar to her. Such had been the law of the land in Nehekhara as well, though it had been a bit more organised in the case of her people. An old pain rose to the surface.

In her mind’s eye, she saw the feast where it had all started to go wrong. She saw Khalida — her little hawk — stand up to accuse her of black magic and obscene rites. Only one of which was true. Khalida had demanded a trial by combat, and Neferata, trapped by her own words, had given in to her cousin.

She heard the clash of steel and felt that first gash beneath her left breast. She again felt that thrill of fear, so alien now more than a century after the fact. Again, she saw the blade in her cousin’s hand looping out for her throat. She could feel Khalida’s heart hammering through the thin material of her robe. And then she felt her die.

But she hadn’t, had she?

Neferata opened her eyes. Khalida had come back. Again and again, she came back. She shook her head, driving the thoughts aside. She had left all of that behind. Let the dead stay in the land of the dead.

‘Your fangs are showing, my lady,’ Khaled murmured. Neferata closed her lips and glanced at the other vampire. He smiled at her. She didn’t return the expression. He was never far away when she rode with Vorag. He was either overprotective or jealous, neither of which was useful to her at the moment.

‘Where are the others?’ she snapped. The forests had long since given way to the upper reaches of the mountains and the column of riders wound its way along a path into the high places. A few clumps of trees dotted the rocky slopes, but little else. They rode carefully. The Strigoi horses were bred for mountain travel, apparently, and displayed none of the skittishness she would have expected.

‘Scattered through the column, as you requested,’ he said. ‘Your eyes and ears are open and among the cattle, milady. We learn their language and customs, as you commanded.’

‘And why aren’t you with them?’

‘I felt it best to remain by your side, just in case…’ he trailed off hopefully.

‘Just in case what, my Kontoi?’ she asked, not looking at him. The word was Arabyan, and meant ‘noble rider’. In Bel Aliad, only men of noble birth rode horses into war, and clad themselves in the bronze and iron armour of the Kontoi.

She had learned, to her cost, of the power of a Kontoi charge. Especially when Abhorash rode at their head, as he had then. She looked at Khaled. ‘Just in case I should require your protection, perhaps?’ she snapped and her tone was as sharp as a slash of her claws. Khaled stiffened and dropped back as she rode on, and she cursed herself for her tone. Khaled required more reprimanding than her other servants, but honey had to alternate with vinegar sometimes. It wasn’t his fault. Her blood-kiss seemed to affect men in certain unfortunate ways. She considered Abhorash’s broad back and sniffed. Then, it always had, had it not?