‘You can’t do this,’ she said, approaching him.

‘Neferata,’ Arkhan said in his hollow voice. ‘You still live.’

‘You sound disappointed.’

‘No,’ Arkhan said. Bones rustled as he turned, his glowing gaze sweeping over her without apparent emotion. ‘Does this city hold some special place in your heart?’

‘No,’ Neferata said. Her armour hung from her body in ragged scraps; it had been battered and torn by Arkhan’s bodyguards as she had killed them. In the ruins of her once great temple, her followers battled his, even as her enemies battled the dead in the streets. It was a war on three fronts, fought by three armies. She raised the notched and dull khopesh she held and pointed it at him. ‘But it is mine nonetheless. You will not take it from me.’

‘Would you match your strength against mine?’ Arkhan said. ‘You ran from Nagash. Am I so much less fearsome?’

‘Infinitely,’ she said.

‘Nagash is dead,’ Arkhan said suddenly.

Neferata hesitated. ‘What?’

‘He is dead.’

‘Did you—’

Arkhan made a rasping, wheezing noise she took to be laughter. ‘No. And neither did your old friend W’soran.’ The glowing eyes dulled slightly. ‘It was Alcadizzar.’

Neferata closed her eyes, just for a moment. The pain was faint now, but it was there. She swallowed it down. ‘Is he…?’

‘I know not. Nor, in truth, do I care,’ Arkhan said. ‘Nagash is gone and I have been driven from Khemri. I need a new fortress, a new place to rebuild my strength before my opponents follow me.’

‘Your opponents — who were they? Nagash killed everyone!’ Neferata said. She knew even as she asked what the answer would be. She had known since that night where the sky turned green and the dead had grown restless in the burial vaults.

‘The Great Land is a land of the dead now. They rule it in the darkness even as they did beneath the sun.’ Arkhan used two fingers to push aside her blade. ‘The tombs of the mighty gape wide and the war-chariots of Settra rumble to war.’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Yes, he brought them back. All of them unto the first generation,’ Arkhan intoned. ‘And they are angry, Neferata. They curse my name even as they curse Nagash’s… and yours.’

‘What?’ Neferata said, shaken.

Arkhan lunged, swatting aside her sword and grabbing her wrist. He pulled her to him, his skull pressed close to her face. ‘They hate you. All of the dead of Lahmia hate you. They want to punish you and all your court for your crimes. And her voice is the loudest of all.’

‘Her?’

‘The little hawk,’ Arkhan whispered, and his words were like a knife sliding across her sensitive flesh. ‘Khalida of Lybaras hunts once more, Neferata, and she is coming even now across the sands of the Great Desert.’ He grabbed her chin. ‘And she is coming for you…’

They returned to Mourkain under cover of darkness.

Neferata rode through dark streets, and was reminded of times long past, and another city that held its breath by night. Rasha and Layla rode close behind her. Stregga, of course, had stayed with Vorag, who was in no hurry to return to Mourkain. Instead, he intended to visit the other frontier nobles. Men, like him, who were kept at arm’s length from the centres of power. Men who, like him, all had among their trains Neferata’s handmaidens, though most knew it not, thinking them mere concubines, or priestesses or slaves.

In contrast to how long it had taken to subvert the religions of Strigos, it had taken no time at all to take swift and decisive control of the burgeoning slave trade. Now, her followers controlled the flow of slaves from the west and the north and of the latter, those who met a certain set of requirements were culled and sent to Mourkain to receive Neferata’s blessings. As a result, her handmaidens numbered over a hundred these days, their numbers only exceeded by those of Ushoran’s get.

Sometimes she felt a faint sense of displeasure at the thought of employing so many in such a capacity. She had taken living creatures, women much like she had once been, and turned them from beings with their own destinies into playing pieces on a board whose parameters she was still, as yet, uncertain of. But those thoughts were few and far between. Mostly, she concerned herself with the humming strands of plot and counter-plot that stretched from her black brain. With the orcs broken, the trade routes had blossomed into full flower, bringing new blood from the west into the lands of the Strigoi. She had spent almost a century seeing to it, visiting the wildling tribes and those from farther west whose representatives had heard of Strigos and wished to see its power up close.

But rather than exploiting that strength, Neferata had instead undermined it. She had moved from tribe to tribe, spreading not the story of Mourkain’s majesty, but of its frailty. She had whispered of the decadence of its rulers, of the weakness of its armies, and of the great wealth which it had, but did not deserve.

She smiled slightly. The Draesca had wasted little time; the wildling tribes had already begun asserting their control of the rough country and taking what could charitably be called more than their fair share of the wealth from the trade routes. Too, the Draesca had begun to eye the Draka and the other large tribes askance. Ushoran was not the only would-be emperor in these mountains.

It would be war soon enough. A few years perhaps, maybe a decade, and by then the wild tribes would have become less wild and thus more dangerous to Strigos, which had already begun to stagnate in its superiority. She could almost smell the rot; she sniffed, tasting… ‘Blood,’ she said, suddenly alert.

‘The air is thick with it,’ Rasha murmured, riding just behind her.

Layla sniffed. ‘Why is it so quiet? What is going on?’

‘Halt!’

Iron-capped spear-butts thumped on the street as the armoured warriors moved into the open. They wore fur cloaks to protect themselves from the night’s chill, and their armour was chipped and black. ‘Curfew, strangers… Do you have a reason for being out tonight?’ one grunted.

‘Curfew, is it?’ Neferata said, pulling back her hood. The watchmen seemed to hiss collectively. They knew her face. There was no woman in Mourkain who looked like Neferata, though many aped her style. ‘On whose orders, I wonder?’

‘Hetman Ushoran, my lady,’ the watchman stuttered. ‘From sunset to sunrise, all citizens are to remain indoors.’

Neferata urged her horse closer. ‘Why?’ she said, holding the man’s eyes with her own. Rasha and Layla joined her.

‘Spies, my lady,’ Naaima said. Neferata looked up. Her handmaiden stood across from the watchmen. She had arrived silently. Or perhaps she had been waiting for them. ‘I am glad to see you back. We need no escort,’ Naaima added, touching one of the men on the arm. ‘Continue about your business and be assured that your superiors shall hear of your dedication.’ The man saluted gratefully and the whole lot slid around and past the mounted vampires with as much speed as the dignity of their office could allow. Neferata watched them go before turning back to her handmaiden.

‘I see events have occurred in my absence,’ she said.

‘Someone tried to kill Ushoran,’ Naaima said bluntly. ‘He’s blamed us. He has Anmar.’

‘What?’ Neferata snapped, jerking on her horse’s reins. The animal whinnied and lashed at the air with its hooves. ‘Explain yourself!’

‘His paranoia has become a force unto itself,’ Naaima said. She extended a hand and Neferata swung her up onto her horse. Naaima settled behind her, clutching her mistress. She answered Neferata’s next question before she had a chance to ask it. ‘It was not us.’