In the chaotic moments before the two beasts collided, Neferata saw Rasha leap away, followed by a crackling column of emerald fire. The orc shaman turned and gaped comically as Neferata’s wyvern barrelled into its own and both beasts toppled backwards from the palisade in a thrashing, crashing heap of scale and muscle.
The water of the river reached up for them greedily and Neferata leapt from the wyvern even as the water closed around them. She lunged for the orc shaman, attempting to disembowel it as they hit the water. Abhorash had insisted on digging a moat between the palisades and the rest of the mountain slope. It had taken a hundred men more than a hundred days of backbreaking labour to carve the winding scar and another month to properly divert water from the wild, dark river that surrounded and irrigated Mourkain into it. The moat was only as deep as three men standing one atop the other, but it had served its purpose, blunting the idiot ferocity of the first few orc assaults.
A thrashing wing crashed against her, sending her shooting through the water. She barely held on to her sword. The two wyverns were tangled together, snapping and writhing. Bloody clouds floated through the water as Neferata arrowed towards the floating shape of the shaman. The orc was desperately clawing for the surface.
She grabbed its thick ankle and yanked it down. Sorcerers were dangerous, even to her kind. Even if the sorcerer in question were a green-fleshed savage, the magic they wielded was one of the few things she knew of that could kill one of her kind.
Thus, caution was called for. She sank down to the river bottom and crouched, hauling the struggling orc after her. Its piggy eyes bulged as the shadows of the struggling wyverns fell over them, and it clawed for the distant grey light of the surface. A slew of bubbles burst from its bulbous jaw. Neferata grinned as the shaman slowly drowned. When she was certain it was dead, she let the body float to the surface and followed it.
As her head broke the surface, one of the wyverns followed suit. It crashed up out of the water, torn wings flapping and its jaws coated in bloody froth. Blinded and berserk, it screamed a challenge and lunged for her as she crawled up onto the bank.
Two swords punctured its brain pan a moment before it struck, driving its head down into the water at her feet. Anmar and Rasha rose from the water as the beast’s death-throes ceased. Neferata laughed and hauled the dead shaman up, lopping off its head a moment later. Holding up the head by one of its tusks, she leapt lightly onto the dead wyvern. She extended her arm, holding the head aloft.
She shrieked out a challenge in the greenskin tongue, pitching her voice to carry across the clamour of the battlefield. Her words didn’t need to carry far. They only had to kick the first pebble of the avalanche loose.
The orcs broke, as she had known they would. In the past two centuries, she had learned the intricacies of their ways. It had been child’s-play for one used to dealing with the ambitious kings of Nehekhara to incite the orcs to mass and attack.
Now, keeping them attacking for close to two centuries had been the trick. Two centuries of constant invasion and retreat had created a massive horde of the beasts — a Waaagh! as they referred to it. As each small wave was destroyed, it had collapsed and been absorbed by the next, creating a perfect storm of bestial violence. With this last attack, she judged that the time would be right for another period of infighting among the various tribal remnants, especially with the current warboss and shaman dead; others would have to be chosen.
‘Rasha,’ she murmured as she looked up at the palisade. Ushoran seemed to have survived and he was occupied with his guards. The slim vampire looked to her mistress, water trickling down her face.
‘Wazzakaz,’ Rasha said, knowing what Neferata wanted.
‘Yes. Go give him a sign, would you?’ Neferata said, tossing the head into the water. Wazzakaz was the next-most prominent of the current crop of orc shamans, and a firm believer in throwing his followers at the holds of their ancient enemies the dwarfs, rather than the pitiful territories of the humans. Now, after this most telling defeat of his current rival, would be the perfect point for Wazzakaz to see an omen which would encourage him to insist that whatever chieftain was listening to him this week press his right to control the Waaagh!
Rasha moved swiftly and departed down the slope, unnoticed by any of the others there. Neferata’s followers had learned much about the arts of stealth over the decades. Then, it wasn’t hard in the aftermath of a battle to move without being noticed, especially considering some of the others up and about. On the nearby slopes, dark cowled and robed figures prowled among the dead. To the people, they were simply the Mortuary Cult. It was a source of supreme amusement to Neferata that W’soran had chosen to co-opt the cult of the liche priests of the Great Land, and dedicate it to gathering the dead for his dark experiments. She climbed out of the river and shook her hair, trying to free herself of the slimy feel of the water.
‘We will reap a great harvest this day,’ a sibilant voice chortled.
Neferata turned. The speaker was draped in heavy robes, but even with the concealing hood, she could tell that his head was overlarge and oddly proportioned. ‘Melkhior,’ she greeted the robed man. ‘Your cloud cover came in handy. You should be commended.’
Melkhior emitted a gurgling laugh. ‘You would be the only one to do so, my lady,’ he said. She caught a glimpse of the face in the hood and repressed a grimace. More bat than human and more corpse than bat, Melkhior was the most senior of W’soran’s ever-growing supply of apprentices. The other vampire had apparently discovered a love of teaching. Thin-limbed and bloat-bellied, Melkhior looked and smelled like a corpse that had been left overlong in the sun. That was natural among W’soran’s students. Melkhior was also a treacherous little worm, if what her spies reported was the truth, having murdered at least three of his rivals for W’soran’s attentions. That too he had learned from W’soran, and Melkhior was nothing if not an apt pupil. ‘And you deserve a commendation as well,’ the apprentice continued, gesturing to the dead wyverns. ‘Such heroism puts even mighty Abhorash to shame.’
‘Speaking of heroes, where is your master? Cowering in the dark while the rest of us defend his hideaway?’ Neferata said, using the tip of her sword to pull the edge of Melkhior’s hood away from his face. The vampire jerked back.
‘He is above such petty concerns as mere warfare,’ Melkhior said.
‘Yes. So he has said on numerous occasions. What is it he is not above, I wonder,’ she said, frowning. She traced the bloated sack of Melkhior’s cheek with the sword tip.
‘Ask him yourself,’ Ushoran said.
Neferata turned and looked up at the palisade as Melkhior scurried away. Ushoran gestured sharply, as if to a dog. ‘Come, my Lady of Mysteries. Your king requires your counsel.’
Neferata sheathed her sword without flourish. She refused to give Ushoran the satisfaction of reacting publically to his needling. She and Anmar stepped through the broken section of the palisade. The third wyvern lay there, gutted and cooling. Spears and arrows sprouted from every inch of its body and its rider lay in several pieces some distance away. Anmar preened slightly as they stepped over the orc’s head, which still had a surprised look on its face.
‘Well done, little leopard,’ Neferata murmured as they joined the others.
‘I live but to serve, my lady,’ Anmar said.
‘If only all of my servants were so accommodating,’ Neferata said. Anmar made a face.
‘He’s only doing as you asked, my lady,’ she said diplomatically. ‘As he always does,’ she added.