But a live host required careful pruning of anything that might endanger it. The orcs, for instance; but with the barbarian tribes, and Vorag’s men, the orcs would be easy enough to destroy. She had learned much over the course of the past century, fighting and manipulating them. Now was the time to put all that knowledge to use. The orcs had outlived their usefulness and their violent antics were more hindrance than help.

Wazzakaz’s Waaagh! had been crashing like a green ocean around the rock of Karaz Bryn for close to three decades now. The great shaman himself had gone from a vigorous, mad, bad bastard of an orc to a withered, hunched thing that cackled and rocked in its saddle. Her spies had kept tabs on the creature, and had watched the ebb and flow of the siege of Karaz Bryn.

She had sent messengers to the Silver Pinnacle, offering the aid of Strigos. Razek had yet to respond. Whether that was due to dwarf stubbornness or the war-effort, she could not say, though she expected that it was the former.

The next month was given over to the dull routine of preparation. Neferata stayed out of it for the most part — Vorag knew his own business, and she had no interest in second-guessing his preparations for the war to come. Instead, she concentrated on other, more important matters.

Namely, finding out what W’soran was up to.

She had spent decades rooting out the traitors and would-be regicides in the court of Mourkain; some, like Zandor, had been convinced to accept what scraps were offered. Others had been dealt with quietly. Nonetheless, one had escaped every trick and trap she had set. W’soran was plotting; she knew this as surely as she knew that he knew that she was doing the same.

But so far, she had caught not a hint or whisper of just what it was that he was plotting to do. He did not want to rule, such was not one of W’soran’s desires. The urge to know what he was hiding had become almost unbearable.

Neferata stalked through the halls that W’soran had claimed near the peak, ignoring the whispers and glances of W’soran’s disciples as they hurried about in their cowls and robes even as she ignored the dead who moved stiffly about certain unwholesome tasks.

Even as her own numbers had increased, so too had W’soran’s. Of them all, only Abhorash resisted the temptation to share his blood-kiss with others, save for his few followers. She did not know whether that suggested weakness or strength on his part. Perhaps it was simply the old familiar stubbornness that had so characterised her former champion in better, brighter times.

Not all of W’soran’s followers were vampires, however. Like some virulent strain of plague, the vampire-disciples had taken apprentices of their own, creating a strange, semi-cultic hierarchy. Only one had not done so. And it was that one she was on her way to see.

W’soran’s creatures went up and down in their master’s favour like a fisherman’s cog on the waves. Sometimes one would be the favourite and then another. Morath was out this week, it seemed. He was out often; refusing W’soran’s bite was tantamount to spitting in the old leech’s face.

She smiled. Morath had courage, of a sort. Not a physical bravery, but a mental fortitude that she admired. If circumstances had been different, she would have given him her blood-kiss. As it was, he could still prove useful, in the right circumstances.

Circumstances like these, for instance.

Finding out what W’soran was up to had become an itch that needed scratching. What higher matters, what concerns occupied the necromancer deep in his lair in the mountain? Why did he only go to the pyramid on certain nights? And why did he inevitably leave with fewer acolytes than he entered with?

The floor vibrated quietly with the rumble of the mine-works below in the guts of the mountain. More than gold was being dredged out of the dark now. She paused for a moment, listening. The gold would go to good cause. It could be used to open up trade routes to Cathay and Araby, and even Ind. Too, thanks to the whispered influences of her handmaidens, the barbarians over the mountains and to the north now desired it, though they had little practical use for it.

W’soran was even crafting a golden crown for the Draesca brute, Volker. Knowing W’soran, the crown would likely be more than just mere metal, but that was of little import. No, what was important was that the crown — that all of the gifts — would bind the savages to Strigos. Here in these wild hills she was perfecting the arts she had learned in Cathay and employed in Araby. War was a blunt tool, at best. Conquest could be achieved more easily by simply convincing the enemy that they were more like you than they’d thought. Familiarity bred more than just contempt, it also bred complacency. In a few centuries, the wildling tribes would fold easily and with little complaint into the Strigoi empire.

The same tactics could be applied personally. Seduction was more potent than fear, and took less effort to maintain. She had considered Melkhior at first, but found the idea of drawing too close to that creature repugnant.

But Morath was different. In his own way, the necromancer reminded her of Abhorash. Ushoran had forced him to accept W’soran’s tutelage, wanting a man inside whatever spider’s web the foul creature was sure to weave in his new lair. And it seemed only fitting that Neferata now take Morath under her wing.

She knew his scent now. It was stale, like crypt air, but lacking the rotten undercurrent that so many of W’soran’s creatures emanated. The room was small as such places went in the hold. Bats fluttered in brass cages and jars of strange liquids sat on benches and shelves. Papyrus and scrolls were strewn everywhere, scattered amongst stacks of clay tablets from the Southlands and hairy books from the ice-lands far to the north. W’soran’s agents had been scouring the world for centuries, hunting up precious bits of sorcerous know-ledge for some purpose she did not yet fathom.

It all tied into the pyramid somehow. And the hunched figure sitting before her, with his back to her, would tell her how.

‘My lady,’ Morath said without turning around. ‘The spirits bound to these old stones spoke of your coming.’

‘Did they? And did they also impart my reason for coming here?’ she said as she came up behind him.

‘No, they did not.’ Morath flinched as Neferata stroked his arm. ‘Why are you here?’ he said, not looking up from the scroll unrolled before him.

‘Call it curiosity,’ she said, peering over his shoulder. She clucked her tongue. ‘Fell magics indeed.’

Morath looked at her. ‘What would you know of it?’

Neferata shook her head. ‘Me? Nothing, of course. W’soran’s brood do not share their secrets with just anyone…’ She traced his cheek with a claw, eliciting a thin trail of blood and a wince.

‘What do you want, my lady?’ he said.

‘I should have thought that that would be obvious, Lord Morath,’ she said, gently licking the blood from his cheek. He thrust away from her, knocking over the table and starting awkwardly to his feet. She could hear his heart thudding in his chest like a war-drum and see his blood pulsing in his veins. The smell of his fear was intoxicating. She frowned, restraining the urge to leap on him and feed until he had been bled white.

‘No,’ he said harshly. ‘No, no. I’ve been around your kind too long. I’m not as foolish as that oaf, Vorag, panting after that—’

‘Careful,’ Neferata said mildly, looking at the scroll. Morath swallowed then snatched it away from her.

‘This is not for your eyes,’ he said. Neferata looked at him. Morath was handsome, in a way. He was no brute like Vorag, but there was none of the lean beauty of the men of her people either. He was hard-faced, all flat planes and angles and sharp words and edges.

‘It could be, if you gave it to me,’ she said, holding out her hand.