Stregga snarled as Vorag’s horse went down with a burst skull, courtesy of a lucky blow. The Strigoi hit the ground and rolled to his feet in a cloud of dust, even as an orc mounted on a snorting boar charged towards him, spear levelled. Vorag deftly avoided the spear and swept his arms wide as the beast rushed towards him. He caught the boar around its neck and veins bulged black in his pale flesh as he wrenched the beast up in mid-gallop and flung it over his shoulder, snapping its spine in the process. The boar fell, spilling its rider, and Vorag pounced, jaws agape.

The battle lost cohesion moments later, devolving into a swirling melee. The signal drums thundered, calling for the horsemen to retreat as they’d planned, but to no avail. Their blood was up and it was all the ajals on the slope could do to keep the ranks from charging into the fray.

Neferata swung the flat of her blade out, striking the shield of one of the men, and snarled. ‘Back,’ she snapped. ‘Get back or lose your head! Get them in line!’ The men fell back in haste, resuming their positions, their faces white with fear as their vampire masters snarled and snapped at them.

Satisfied that order had been restored, Neferata scanned the melee. If they could find the creatures’ war-chief, they might be able to bring an end to the battle in one stroke. The former wasn’t difficult. Orcs were simple creatures, with simple desires. They wanted the biggest, loudest fight they could find, and they’d kill each other to get it. Right now, that fight was Vorag.

Neferata couldn’t help but admire the way the Strigoi fought. He lacked the precision of Abhorash or the sadism inherent in Ushoran’s tactics. Instead, Vorag fought like an animal unleashed. His size seemed to increase as he waded through the orcs that sought to pull him down. His body swelled hideously, his arms and shoulders bulging with muscle. He stabbed an orc through the head with a shattered spear and swept the body out, knocking another creature aside. His face wrinkled into a bestial grimace, his lips rolling back from needle-studded gums. Claws sprouted from his fingers and he ripped apart his enemies with wild abandon.

Pulling a squalling orc in half, Vorag threw back his head and howled. A moment later, a ground-rattling bellow echoed in reply and sent orcs scrambling as something massive thrust its way through the press that now surrounded Vorag. A saw-edged blade the length of Neferata’s leg smashed down, digging a trench in the rock of the slope and forcing Vorag to skip backwards. The orc boss was bigger than three men and its red, piggy eyes were bright with feral bloodlust. It bellowed again as its eyes fastened on Vorag. The big blade snapped out, and he sank down and it sliced the air above his head. Vorag roared and flung himself on the orc.

Neferata couldn’t identify the beast; there were dozens of bosses among the Waaagh! each with their own tribes. This one was bigger than most, however. ‘Can he handle it?’ she said, looking at Stregga. Stregga didn’t reply. She watched the fight, her teeth bared and her eyes wide as she drank it in. Neferata growled and slapped her. ‘Stregga! Can he win?’

Stregga shook her head. ‘I–I don’t know,’ she grunted. Moments later, Vorag was knocked to the ground by a sweep of the orc’s arm. The creature roared and raised its blade over the stunned vampire.

Neferata cursed. If Vorag lost his head here, her plans would be endangered. It might take centuries to groom another capable of heading a revolt. Centuries she might not have. Hurry, Neferata! The stars spin faster and faster as dust is stirred by hollow winds. You will be a queen again and you will rule over silent, perfect cities, but only if you hurry, the voice purred at the back of her head. Annoyed, she shook it aside. A moment later she was moving, driving her own sword into the orc’s unarmoured torso.

It howled in agony. A green hand fastened on her head as she tried to pull her blade loose and she was smashed down against the slope. Bone cracked and splintered and blood burst from between her lips in an exhalation of agony. Stregga was there a moment later, hewing through the orc’s arm. The orc reared back, squalling as Layla leapt upon its back and clawed at its eyes.

Neferata pulled herself to her feet, grimacing in pain as her wounds re-knit. She lunged upwards, her teeth snapping together in the meat of the beast’s throat. With a jerk of her head, she tore its throat out. It toppled backwards, and she rode it down, crouching on it. Gagging, she spat out the foul-tasting lump of meat and hissed at the orcs who had stopped to watch the fight. Stregga joined her, snarling like a hungry tigress.

Clutching her wounds, Neferata shrieked. The sound of it echoed across the slope, bouncing from tree to rock. One by one, slowly at first, then faster and faster, the orc advance became a retreat. The green wave reversed itself and began to wash downhill, back into the valley below. The Strigoi sent a farewell of arrows to keep the orcs moving in the right direction.

The slaughter lasted for what seemed like hours and the darkness began to slip into the purple of dawn as it ended. Wazzakaz’s horde had been cut into thirds and reduced from a juggernaut to something substantially less intimidating. The slope was carpeted in the bodies of slain orcs.

‘Beautiful,’ Vorag said, trotting towards them. The big vampire grinned widely and leered at Stregga, looking none the worse for wear despite the blood that coated him head to toe. ‘I couldn’t have done it better myself!’

‘No, you couldn’t have,’ Stregga said, wiping her mouth.

Neferata spat — she could still taste the bitter tang of the orc’s blood. ‘Did you send riders?’ she said. Her wounds had healed, though the ghost-ache of bones broken earlier lingered.

‘Yes and the stunted ones are ready. We should be able to — there!’ Vorag gestured. The brass-banded dragon-horns of the dwarfs harrowed the frosty dawn air from their position far down in the valley. The orcs no longer had the numbers to beat the throng; they would be annihilated. Vorag rubbed his hands together. ‘Should I take my riders down there, just in case?’ he asked eagerly.

‘No,’ Neferata said. ‘I want you to stay put. We’ll need you and your riders fresh for the morrow.’

‘Why, what’s tomorrow?’

‘The dwarfs don’t pursue beaten foes. The orcs will flee. We need to grind them up and ensure that it takes generations for them to ever prove a threat again.’ Neferata kicked a dead orc and glared down into its slack features. ‘It may take days or months, but we need them beaten.’

‘But—’ Vorag began. Neferata looked at him. The other vampire grimaced and looked away, unwilling to match her gaze. ‘Fine,’ he grunted. ‘What now?’

‘We wait,’ Neferata said. ‘We let the dwarfs wet their axes as we promised. We’ll need to send a rider to Ushoran, to let him know how we’ve fared here.’ She smiled slightly at the look on Vorag’s face. ‘He will become suspicious, otherwise. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?’ Her smile grew wider and she added, ‘At least, not until it’s too late.’

ELEVEN

The dead fought in silence, their weapons rising and falling with monotonous ferocity. They hacked their way through the living warriors of Bel Aliad without slowing or stopping, and those that fell were replaced by their victims in time.

Arkhan the Black watched it all from the roof of the temple of the ghoul-god, and found it good. Or so Neferata assumed. The withered liche-thing barely resembled the man she had once known and… What? She pushed the thought aside. That was in the dim past and this was the present and here and now, Arkhan endangered everything she had built.