THE FANGS OF THE ASP
Josh Reynolds

 	‘What day is this, Djubti?’ High Queen Khalida asked. Her voice issued from dry, cracked lips like sand sliding through a stone sluice. She blinked eyelids as fragile as papyrus and sucked air into long-shrivelled lungs, flexing her withered fingers. They were fragile looking, but capable of crushing stone. So much had changed.

 	The wizened, bent shape of the liche priest who served as her advisor turned slightly. Like Khalida herself, and the legions which stood at her back, silent and patient, Djubti was a shrivelled thing, empty of fluid, if not vitality. Dead flesh the colour of dried leather shrunk tight against yellowing bones beneath tattered rags which had once been fine. Decorations of gold and turquoise dangled against a shrunken chest and armlets meant for living limbs sagged and rattled on his bony arms.

 	‘The Day of Challenge, mighty Queen,’ Djubti said, as if she had not forgotten and his reminder was nothing more than a formality. ‘It is the Day of Scorpions, the Day of Swords.’

 	‘So soon,’ she murmured. That was why she was out here then. The explanation brought comfort, though not relief. Memories clutched at her, previous days of challenge and challengers both and the dim clangour of long-gone weapons.

 	She looked up, at the black shape of Nagashizzar, which pierced the body of the horizon like a cancer. Its shadow spread across the slopes of Cripple Peak and the shores of the Sour Sea like some monstrous hand, rendering all within its envelop withered and dead, including the armies which unceasingly patrolled these lands, awaiting an enemy long-extinct. Armies such as hers, stationed here at the very heart of the ancient enemy’s land; it would fall to her to face Nagash first, should he return. That was her burden and her honour, by right of besting the former sentry on a previous Day of Scorpions, so long ago. She had held her place since then, against every challenger on every Day of Scorpions. Today would be no different.

 	‘It has been a decade since the last, most puissant and cunning lady,’ Djubti said, looking at her. She wondered, idly, what he saw. She had seen her reflection before, in the warped and blasted patches of sand which now dotted the Great Land as well as in the sluggish waters of oasis and river. But the reality of her was always blended in her mind’s eye with the memory of what – of whom – she had been. She saw the living warrior-queen, not the dead thing, the mummified parody of womanhood. Her hands clenched with a crackling of dry linen.

 	‘Has it?’ she said, not really requiring an answer.

 	‘Indeed, oh Beloved of Asaph,’ he croaked, air wheezing through his cracked and fleshless jaws. ‘Though I would not wish to insult the High Queen of Lybaras by implying that she had forgotten such, being but a humble scholar and not worthy.’

 	‘Humble scholar, is it?’ she said.

 	‘Most humble and indeed, unworthy to stand in the shadow of the wings of the Great Hawk of Lybaras, most beloved and gracious daughter of the Asp goddess,’ Djubti said, leaning on his staff. Merry sparks danced in his otherwise empty eyes. In life, Djubti had advised her grandfather and great-grandfather, or so he claimed. In death, he counselled her.

 	‘Only a decade,’ she said.

 	‘Every ten seasons comes the Day of Scorpions, my Queen,’ Djubti said. ‘Like the rains it comes and challengers with it.’ He gestured with his staff and she saw them, marching in silent formation. Spearmen, archers and horsemen were all in evidence and likely had been for some time, the dust of their passage rising high into the sky. She felt a moment’s dismay at the fact that she had not seen them, too lost in her memories.

 	The tomb-legion stalked across the shore, the poisonous waves of the Sour Sea lapping at bare bones and skeletal hooves and the grinding metal talons of a massive, bestial warsphinx. The leonine statue caused none of the fear in her she would have felt, centuries past when blood still pumped in her veins. Now, its relentless lope merely piqued her curiosity. It was a show of ostentation, to unleash such a war-engine for an occasion such as this. Whoever he was, he obviously had little idea of who she was if he thought to overawe her in such a fashion.

 	‘Who is it who comes, Djubti?’ she said, not recognising the age-grimed standards that swayed and caught at the light with reflective talons.

 	‘Ushtep of Rasetra, High Queen, to judge by the falcon on his standard’ the liche priest said. He knew all the standards and who they were borne by. ‘His force is small, but battle-tested. Settra himself has spoken warm praises of his prowess.’

 	‘Has he,’ Khalida said.

 	‘No,’ Djubti said mildly. ‘But so Ushtep claims. Even in death, he seeks to elevate himself on the shoulders of others. He thinks that a period guarding this befouled tomb will gain him some influence; it is an honour, after all.’

 	‘It is my honour,’ Khalida said.

 	‘So it is,’ Djubti said, ducking his head. ‘But perhaps, my Queen, it is time for another to take your place?’ She looked at him. Djubti made a sound that might have been a sigh. ‘Perhaps not,’ he said.

 	She ignored Djubti and looked down at her hand, her once slim fingers now reduced to linen shrouded talons. The loss of her beauty, of her life, bothered her not at all, a fact which in its turn did bother her, though in no way she could grasp. Her living years were as a dream, rags and tatters of colourful memory which occasionally swam to the black surface of her mind.

 	‘Speak softly and only into the ears of those inclined to listen,’ Neferata murmured as they watched the acrobats perform in the feast-hall of the great palace of Lahmia. They sat together on a pile of sumptuous pillows, set onto one of the many raised dais’s that dotted the hall. Among the worthies gathered amidst the stone columns and silken curtains below were men of noble birth from across the width and breadth of the Great Land. The motion of Neferata’s hand plucked them from obscurity in the same manner as another woman might choose sweetmeats. ‘Look there my little hawk, where Lord Ushtep of Rasetra and Imrathepis of Numas, third in line for the throne of that city, plot, for instance.’

 	‘How do you know they are plotting?’ Khalida had asked. Her eyes never left the men.

 	Neferata chuckled and stroked the nape of her cousin’s neck with an easy, familiar gesture. ‘How could they be doing otherwise, given the tension between those two cities?’ She raised a hand and Khalida saw a shave-headed servant thread through the crowd towards the two men. ‘Likely, they intend to use that tension in order to raise their cachet amongst their own circles. Games within games, my little hawk,’ she said.

 	‘What will you do?’ Khalida asked, intrigued.

 	‘I will help them, of course,’ Neferata said. ‘I will have them both in my debt and Lahmia will benefit greatly from that.’

 	‘What if they do not want your help?’

 	‘One of them will,’ Neferata said confidently, ‘even if he must go behind his co-conspirator’s back to get it.’ She looked at Khalida and smiled. ‘Men think themselves wise if they know how to wage war, but none are so wise as those who recognise that war has more than one form.’ She gestured smoothly. ‘War has levels and fields undreamt by bull-headed generals and power-drunk kings.’ She pulled Khalida to her and kissed the top of her head. ‘Every war, every fight, has more than one front, Khalida. You would do well to remember that…’

 	Khalida blinked away the fraying strands of memory and looked around, trying to re-familiarise herself with the present. It was hard, sometimes, to recognise the here and now. There were some among the risen dead of Nehekhara who could not, and spent their days in death as they had in life, unable to discern the change which had been forcibly wrought upon them. Servants, collections of bone and rags, stood immoveable around her, the brown bones of their arms bent against the poles of the ancient sunscreen they held over her head, a head no longer capable of feeling the sun. Behind them, the legions of Lybaras stood, waiting for her orders. Not all of them, to be sure, for she was no longer the Queen, but one queen among all the risen queens and kings of that fallen city.

 	She touched her face and then her palm fell to the pommel of the khopesh stabbed into the dry earth before her. Her other hand was still wrapped tight around the comforting length of her staff of office. It was called the Venom Staff, and it was to be wielded only by the Beloved of Asaph, first among the servants of the Asp goddess. Serpentine shapes coiled the length of the staff, intertwining so intricately that it was impossible to tell where one began and others ended. It was a thing of beauty, and sadness as well, for there would never be another Beloved of Asaph. All of her servants were dead, and the dead held their offices forever. She so-rarely released it from her grip that sand had collected in the dips and runnels where her fingers met metal. She set herself, one hand on the khopesh, one on the staff, and waited for the arrival of her latest opponent.

 	Drums thumped as Ushtep’s legion drew to a halt some distance away. The warsphinx was a looming presence, its brooding features glaring at Khalida’s forces. The drums gave a rattle and then a chariot rolled forward, pulled by skeletal horses. Ushtep wore a cloak of hammered brass feathers over his mummified shape, and his helm was fashioned to resemble a hawk’s head. A large shield decorated one arm and a khopesh, much more elaborately engraved than hers, nestled in the crook of his other arm. The chariot creaked to a halt at a point halfway between their two forces. Ushtep gestured sharply and a warrior who was more bone than flesh hopped from the chariot and strode forward, his king’s standard held high to catch the light of the sun as it dipped below the twisted peaks of Nagashizzar.

 	‘King Ushtep, Mighty Falcon of Rasetra, Settra’s Strong Hand in the South, Master of the Fortress of Vengeful Souls, High King of the Sweltering Jungles, Champion of the Charnel Valley, Prince of All Princes and King Among Kings does request that High Queen Khalida, Queen of Lybaras, set low her standards and release her oaths and move hence from these demesnes,’ the herald croaked.

 	Khalida’s face cracked into a smile. It was an old trick, that. Forgoing the recitation of your opponent’s titles was as sure a way of annoying them as any. Ushtep was an old hand at challenges, or perhaps simply arrogant. Either way, the insult rolled off her back. She had heard worse and there was more at stake here than honour. She forestalled her own herald, a liche clad in the raiment of one of Lybaras’ long-extinct scholars, from replying and stepped forward, uprooting her khopesh as she strode to meet her opponent. ‘Be careful, my lady,’ Djubti said softly. Khalida did not reply.

 	‘Remember the parable of the asp and the falcon, cousin. The falcon carried the asp over the river, but when they were in the air, the asp struck. As they fell, the falcon cried out, ‘But why? Now we will both die!’ to which the asp replied, ‘It is my nature.’ When your opponent smiles in triumph, spit into his teeth. When he laughs loud, laugh louder,’ Neferata said, reclining on her cushion. Khalida sprawled beside her, sword across her knees and sweat dripping down her face. ‘Spite is your greatest weapon, besides your mind, because in spite, all things are possible. Kings can be made to grovel for spite. Peasants may be raised to lofty heights and the strongest warrior gutted, all for spite.’ Neferata smiled and tapped two fingers against Khalida’s sword. ‘Spite, my little hawk, is whimsy sharpened to a killing point and with it you will be unpredictable.’

 	‘I don’t know if I have that much hate in me,’ Khalida said.

 	‘Deep wells fill slowly,’ Neferata said, stroking her hair.

 	Ushtep’s herald backed away as she approached. The bony grimace looked nervous, despite its lack of flesh. Khalida tensed and sprang. Her khopesh licked out and cut the head from the standard, dropping Ushtep’s banner into the dust. Ushtep snarled a dusty curse and leapt from his chariot with inhuman agility. He swatted his herald aside and came at her, all pretence to formality banished in the face of her disrespect.

 	Normally, the ritual leading up to the combat would have taken hours, as both parties recited their lineage and titles and their armies assembled in the proper formation to watch as their commanders met in single combat. But Khalida had long since grown tired of ritual and formality, and she wanted the farce over and done with. She had more important matters to attend to.

 	Khalida interposed her khopesh, blocking Ushtep’s blow easily. Their blades locked and the staff twirled in her hand, beating down on his hastily interposed shield. She jerked him off-balance with a sway of her hips and pivoted, driving a heel into his knee. He wore no armour over his legs, and the ancient bone cracked. Ushtep staggered. Khalida spun around him, catching him in the back of the skull with her staff, sending him stumbling forward. Before he could regain his balance, she was on him. Her khopesh chopped down through his shield arm, sawing through bone and ornamental armlets alike.

 	Ushtep groaned in frustration as his arm was dragged to the ground by the weight of the shield. He wobbled back, withered face twisted in a rictus snarl. He swung his blade awkwardly. The khopesh was an unwieldy weapon, especially when your centre of gravity had been badly thrown off. She blocked his blow and sent her blade spinning, taking his with it. Both sank solidly in the soft ground of the shore. She grabbed her staff in her hands and jabbed him, breaking his collarbone and cracking ribs. Wildly, he clutched at her. She stepped back and knocked his legs out from under him with bone-splintering force. He fell face-down, his falcon helm tumbling from his head.

 	Neferata clapped her hands once, sharply. Khalida lowered her practice blade and stepped back. Her opponent remained where he was, face-down on the ground, as the Queen of Lahmia approached. Khalida didn’t resist as her cousin took the blade from her hands and strutted towards the fallen man. Neferata put one sandaled foot on the back of the warrior’s head and gestured with the blade. ‘Why do you back away? You had him beaten.’

 	‘It was not honourable,’ Khalida said defensively. ‘It is not meet for a warrior to–’

 	‘You are not a warrior, little hawk. You are a queen. For your enemies, there can be no mercy without abject surrender. There is no honour in being a ruler. There is only strength.’ Neferata pressed down with her foot, shoving the unresisting man’s face into the dirt. ‘Remember that.’

 	‘I remember,’ Khalida whispered. Almost gently, she put her foot on the back of Ushtep’s neck. ‘Yield, Prince of Rasetra, or I will grind your bones to powder and fling them into the Sour Sea, so that you might wile away our eternal twilight in the bellies of the fish.’

 	Ushtep hissed and his remaining hand tore at the ground in a futile frenzy. Then, abruptly, he went still. ‘I… yield,’ he croaked.

 	‘Louder,’ Khalida said, setting the butt of her staff against his skull.

 	‘I yield, curse you!’ Ushtep howled.

 	Khalida stepped back and Ushtep’s herald and charioteer hurried to help him up. ‘Return then, Prince of Rasetra, from whence you came,’ she said with overt formality. ‘I shall take this to remember you by.’ She snatched an ornately crafted and engraved golden blade from his belt and he did not protest, merely glaring at her. She turned, having little interest in watching Ushtep’s retreat. It would have little of the pomp of his arrival, that much was certain.

 	‘You humiliated him,’ Djubti said, as she approached. His tone wasn’t quite one of disapproval, but it was close. Behind her, she heard the dull crump of drums signalling the retreat of Ushtep’s army. She glanced over her shoulder. They moved more slowly going than they had coming, shuffling in defeat, heads bowed and steps uncertain.

 	‘And what if I did?’ Khalida said. She cocked her head. ‘He insulted me.’

 	Djubti said, ‘By forgetting your titles?’

 	‘No, by daring to demand I turn over my responsibilities to him,’ Khalida said. If she had possessed saliva, she would have spat. ‘As if such a puling wretch as that would be able to stand against the Arch Necromancer when he returns…’

 	‘If he returns,’ Djubti said sharply.

 	Khalida looked at him. ‘The dead do not dream, Djubti. When he returns, he must be fought and with every ounce of fury we whom he ripped from our tombs can muster. Ushtep’s fury pales to mine. He was not worthy.’

 	‘It is not for you to decide–’ Djubti began.

 	‘No. It is a decision for the gods, and they have obviously made it,’ Khalida said. The liche priest’s words stung, more than she cared to admit. That he had said them before did not lessen that sting.

 	He was correct, of course. That was the bit that stuck. It was the nagging hook of doubt that caused her to hesitate. Djubti was right. There were other things that needed doing. The Great Land was at war, and had been since Nagash had shifted the dust of ages from their eyes and set them all stumbling into the harsh light of day. Thousands of kings and queens, generation upon generation of rulers had awoken at once and been set loose into a land that was as dead as they. In those first few months, wars had raged in every city, from Numas to Ka-Sabar, king against king, legions of bone and memory clashing in parody of long-forgotten conflicts. Old grudges were renewed and new grudges nurtured, even after the coming of Settra, first and greatest.

 	Khalida had fought her share of battles, but the opponent she most desired to test herself against was not to hand. She had no need to prove her superiority against the tomb-dust kings of Lybaras who had preceded her.

 	‘You do not speak for the gods, Khalida,’ Djubti said.

 	‘I see you too have forgotten my titles,’ Khalida said.

 	‘Why do we stay here, my lady?’ he said.

 	‘Someone must, Djubti,’ Khalida said. She thrust her staff towards Cripple Peak. ‘Someone must stand before the gates of Nagashizzar and hold them closed. So Settra has decreed. Could a cretin like Ushtep do that?’

 	‘Your certainty of his return has become an obsession,’ Djubti said.

 	‘And so,’ she said. ‘If it has, it is not unfounded. His name is whispered in the living streets of Araby and beyond.’

 	‘How do you know what is whispered among the living?’ Djubti said softly.

 	Khalida hesitated, suddenly remembering that she had not chosen Djubti to serve her. He had been chosen, certainly, but not by her. Settra’s servants moved among the Awakened Kings, passing along the edicts of the King of Kings; they could battle one another, but none could raise arms against Settra the Imperishable; the liche priests saw to that. ‘I have agents among them. Men-merchants, nomads, treasure-hunters some of them-who watch for signs of Nagash–’

 	‘Such is forbidden!’ Djubti thundered, all trace of humour gone. ‘The Living and the Dead do not mix, save in war, Khalida. That was Settra’s Twelfth Edict in the Third Year of Awakening!’

 	‘Then the edict was wrongly issued,’ Khalida rasped. A sigh swept through her legion, like a rustle of fronds in the evening breeze. To question the King of Kings was not unheard of. Lesser kings had done so. They were dust now, ground beneath the wheels of Settra’s war-chariot. ‘Nagash stirs, old liche,’ Khalida continued, thumping the ground with her staff. ‘I can feel him in my bones. We all can, if we but have the wit to listen. His black soul scratches at the deep places of our minds like a rodent in a granary. Nagash calls and those of his blood have heeded him. That is what the living say.’

 	‘Those of his–’ Djubti began. His face wrinkled. ‘Neferata,’ he said, flatly.

 	‘Perhaps,’ Khalida said, lifting her chin.

 	‘Was Sartosa not enough? Or the scouring of Bel-Aliad?’ Djubti said, leaning heavily on his staff. ‘Has your obsession blinded you to common sense?’

 	‘Has yours?’ Khalida countered. Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and left him staring after her. She moved through the fleshless ranks of her legion, ignoring the awkward obeisance of the long-dead soldiers of Lybaras. Once upon a time she would have revelled in it, but now it struck her only as hollow mockery. Nagash had trapped them in a parody of life, in chains of unchanging tradition, and for Khalida that was a crueller torment than even the dull ache of un-life.

 	And, as ever, when that torment became too much, she retreated into memory. All those awakened by Nagash’s spell so many long years past did so, even mighty Settra. It was an open, shared secret, a painful cord that bound all of the Awakened together, commoner, noble and king alike. Memories swept around them and within them like vapour, inundating fleshless skulls and teasing out old habits. There were kings who held banquets of petrified food and dust, even as others engaged in meaningless courtship rituals or conspiracies. None of it mattered, but tradition held the dead far more tightly than it had the living.

 	‘Tradition can be a cage,’ Neferata said, tossing aside the scroll. ‘It binds us tight to unwelcome guests and muffles wisdom.’

 	‘It can also give us strength, my cousin,’ Khalida said, picking up the scroll. ‘It makes sense of the insensible and draws order from chaos.’

 	‘Hmp,’ Neferata grunted, reclining on her divan. ‘Tradition is a trap, little hawk, and nothing more. It holds as tightly and sinks as deeply as the fangs of the asp.’

 	‘A trap,’ Khalida murmured. For Neferata, life had been a trap. Everything was a cage, to keep her from doing as she wished. Every tradition was a bar, every friendship a chain. Now she was beyond it all. She looked around. A sour moon gleamed down, caressing crag and wall. She had unconsciously made her way to the gates of Nagashizzar, now long since forced wide, in the hours since her defeat of Ushtep. She had done so many times, though whether Djubti knew that or not, she couldn’t say. There was a prickle on her shrouded flesh, a faint stirring in her spirit.

 	She looked around the courtyard of Nagash’s cursed citadel, taking in the vast walls and leering skulls carved into them. There were piles of the real thing in the high alcoves, and where once they would have glowed with sorcerous fire they now sat blackened and silent. Mighty towers, now long since crumbling, rose towards the night sky like the withered fingers of a sprawled corpse and there was a layer of filth covering everything, like that which might be on an untended tomb. Most avoided this place, a place even the dead feared. She could not. Not so long as there was a chance–

 	Rocks rattled. Dark shapes, small and swift, ran through the shadows and red eyes gleamed. Khalida smiled and thumped the ground of the ruined citadel’s courtyard with her staff. ‘Come out, Keeskit. I see you there.’

 	The rat-thing shambled into the light, hairy body shrouded in a cloak the colour of the stones. Paw-hands rested on the pommels of two serrated daggers which were sheathed on either stunted hip. A hairless tail lashed and a rag-wrapped muzzle split, revealing yellowed teeth. It chattered at her in its own tongue with a mish-mash of Arabyan and Cathayan words, oft-repeated and with odd pauses. She replied in kind, unafraid of the dozens of scurrying shapes which surrounded her.

 	They knew better, now.

 	Indeed, after that lesson had been taught, and more congenial contact established, these ratkin were almost easier to deal with than her fellow kings and queens. Certainly less greedy; they only wanted the mountain and the abn-i-khat which nestled in its bowels. As Khalida had no use for either, she was happy to let them mine it unmolested in return for information from further to the north. They had burrows throughout the mountains, and little occurred there that they did not have some knowledge of.

 	Keeskit was the only survivor of that original meeting, but not for much longer, Khalida judged. There was silver in his muzzle and his bow was unsteady. One of his followers would kill him soon, she thought, or perhaps one of the ghouls that the ratkin incessantly warred with. She felt a twinge of sadness at the thought for all that Keeskit was a foul little thing. When she had been alive, everything seemed to move so slowly, but now…

 	As they spoke, Keeskit gestured and one of the other ratkin brought forward several human heads, much the worse for wear. They were withered things, drained of all fluid and badly mutilated. She yanked the golden blade she had taken from Ushtep and tossed it to Keeskit, who accepted it with a chitter and a flourish. It was always good to reward service. She thanked the ratkin and they left her there with the heads. She stared down at them, wondering what they would say if they could talk. Would they curse the one who had sent them?

 	‘How many,’ she whispered, her voice as dry as sand. ‘How many will you send, cousin? How many men will spill their blood on these slopes before you come yourself?’ She looked up, examining the tall turrets and crooked spires of the dead citadel.

 	The tall minarets of Bel-Aliad the Beautiful cracked and fell beneath the relentless tread of the warsphinxes of the Great Land. Arkhan the Black had fled to the borders of Araby after being ousted from Khemri and the legions of Settra had followed.

 	Khalida stalked through the flames, her khopesh and staff sweeping out in opposite directions to cut down the leaping ghouls that sought to stall her advance. They bore Neferata’s stink, the black bile of Nagash’s blood. Ghouls swarmed around her, biting and snarling and she danced and slew, leaving a red trail in her wake.

 	And then a tall form, swathed in black iron and red robes, was cutting at her with a black blade. She caught the blade on her staff and swept her khopesh out, drawing sparks from a scarred and pitted cuirass. Her attacker staggered. She whirled, cracking him across his fleshless jaw with her staff. She recognised him now, recognised the stink of the charnel magics that permeated his cursed form – Arkhan the Black, Arkhan the Accursed. Was Neferata aiding him, she wondered, or had he come to take her city from her even as Settra’s legions had come to take it from him?

 	She made to hit him again when a pale hand encircled her staff and jerked her back. Khalida turned, khopesh licking out. A straight-edge sword caught the khopesh and held it. Khalida’s dead eyes widened. ‘You,’ she spat, her voice hoarse from centuries of disuse.

 	‘You,’ Neferata, once Queen of Lahmia, said, her own eyes widening and the snarl slipping from her features. Khalida jerked her staff free of her cousin’s grasp and twisted her wrist, ripping the blade from Neferata’s hand. Neferata leapt back as the staff came down, cracking the ancient stone of the street. In her cousin’s face, Khalida saw something foul writhing, another face superimposed over Neferata’s features, now gone feral after long years feeding at the human trough. The face mouthed hateful curses as Neferata sprang for her, claws extended like those of some great cat. Khalida stretched out a hand, catching Neferata’s throat. She held the hissing, spitting thing that had once been her cousin, her mother and sister in all but name, and tried to find some sign of the woman, the queen she had been.

 	The black blade came down on Khalida’s arm, nearly severing it, and Neferata rolled free. Khalida spun, following her, and Arkhan stepped between her and her prey, sword extended. ‘Finish her, Neferata,’ Arkhan wheezed and his voice was like oil on rocks or the flutter of bats’ wings. Khalida turned, waiting for Neferata’s attack. It did not come.

 	Instead, Neferata ran.

 	She had run. Run from Bel-Aliad to Copher, from city to city, fleeing the Wars of Death. Khalida, bound to Settra’s service, had not been able to follow her cousin. ‘Are you still my cousin?’ she said to the empty courtyard. Part of her wanted to believe otherwise. Part of her raged against the abominations that her cousin and the courtiers of Lahmia had become. That part of her had not died when she had, gasping out her life on the tip of Neferata’s sword, her ears filled with the sound of her cousin’s begging.

 	Neferata had begged her to live. Had pleaded with her, had offered up her tainted blood. Khalida had refused and had… died. The end result, however, was the same. She looked at her hand again, at the black veins, clogged with rotten blood and the way her flesh flaked and peeled beneath linen wrappings. Her muscles cracked and her bones clicked and she felt nothing either way. She was not a person but an automaton, no more human now than the beast-headed ushabti which stalked beside Settra’s legions.

 	That part of her that was consumed by righteous anger had kept her moving when so many of the other Awakened had retreated into dreams and their tombs to hide from the new day that Nagash had forced upon them. She had marched beside Settra, seeking to punish the servants of Nagash. When the liche priests had found signs of the blood-drinkers amongst the pale men of the western shores, she had been in the first war-galley to set sail from Zandri. And in Sartosa, she had again seen her cousin and the thing that rode her. It had crawled into her skin and wore her face and mind like armour.

 	‘You took my wings, Neferata,’ Khalida rasped, hatred burning through her shrunken veins. ‘You made me crawl. Now I will return the favour. Crawl, cousin, crawl.’ Around them, Sartosa burned, even as Bel-Aliad had burned. The fleets of Zandri had come for the men of the west, and they would be punished for thinking that the seas were theirs to ply.

 	‘Never,’ Neferata shrieked, kicking Khalida in the midsection. Khalida staggered and Neferata lunged, predator’s talons sinking into her midsection. Off-balance, Khalida locked a hand on Neferata’s throat and tore her away. She flung the hissing vampire from the aqueduct.

 	Below, the dead surrounded the vampire as she staggered to her feet. Looking down at her, Khalida again saw that second face, that ghostly daemon’s mask, even as she had in Bel-Aliad. It leered up at her like a jackal hidden among the rocks of Neferata’s soul. She leapt down and strode forward, lashing out with her staff and catching Neferata on the chin. Neferata hurtled backwards, bouncing off a column. Still, the face clung to her like sweat. Still it leered at Khalida, taunting her silently.

 	‘Nehekhara is dead, Neferata and all her people with her; why should you escape the fate of the Great Land? Why should you walk in twilight, while your people suffer in darkness?’ she asked, but she already knew the answer. Neferata lived because she was damned and the author of that damnation still plucked at the spider-strands of her soul.

 	‘Because I am Queen,’ Neferata snarled, lunging up.

 	Khalida shuddered, leaning on her staff. Neferata had beaten her there, as well. Had left her broken, but not destroyed. She had not seen Neferata since then. Settra’s scourging of the wild coasts and the waters of the Great Ocean had driven the blood-drinkers inland, into the mountains where such beasts belonged.

 	No. Not beasts, no matter how much she wished to dismiss them as such. Even gripped by her murderous desires, Neferata had been much as Khalida recalled. She was haughty, cunning, cruel… but her cousin still. Khalida had come to realise that even hate gutters low, given enough time. No matter how much you fanned the flames, how many desperate breaths you gave to the dimming fire, even hate burned down to embers. Three times she had faced her cousin, and twice Neferata had resisted the final blow, despite the thing which drove her.

 	Why? Time and again, Neferata stayed her hand.

 	‘What possessed you, cousin?’ she said to the stones. ‘What possesses you still?’

 	There was no response. There never was. But she knew the answer nevertheless.

 	When she returned to her camp below, Djubti said nothing, for which she was thankful. Weeks bled into months. The camp was a quiet mockery of the military camps she remembered from her youth. Empty tents had been raised for soldiers who no longer needed them and skeletal horses fed dusty fodder and poison water from the Sour Sea. Patrols swept the slopes and valleys and low hills of the region, hunting ghouls and other monsters which sometimes came out of the mountains. She killed a multi-headed chimera in that time and a croaking bat-thing with the horns of a stag. Men with the heads of goats and worse things occasionally boiled out of the dark reaches, braying and snarling.

 	Her legion met them all and left them to be swallowed by the sands. Too, she met more challengers. A string of petty kings marched or rode to her doorstep, some respectful, others arrogant, down the long decades. With khopesh and staff she struck them all down, one after another. Through it all, Djubti held his own counsel, and the glimmer of suspicion this aroused grew into full flame when, on the next Day of Scorpions, an army five times the size of her own approached.

 	Hundreds of drums thundered in unison, causing small avalanches and made the ground beneath her feet tremble. Khalida had taken her place at the head of her legion, Djubti by her side. He watched her, as if trying to gauge her reaction. Khalida did not give him the satisfaction of asking the obvious question.

 	The standards of more than one king rose over the approaching force. Close to a dozen, in fact. If Khalida had been capable of smiling, she might have done so. Some of the standards were familiar, belonging to defeated challengers. Others were new. One, however, stood above them all, the standard of Settra the Imperishable.

 	‘I warned you,’ Djubti croaked. ‘I warned you, High Queen.’

 	‘Did you betray me as well?’ Khalida replied. She didn’t look at him. ‘Did you send for him, Djubti? Did you call him to bring me to heel?’

 	‘Do you think so little of me?’ he said.

 	Khalida looked at him then. Djubti looked away, his shoulders hunching. She looked back towards the approaching legions. Her legion would not be able to stand long against those which were now arrayed against her. Nonetheless, she would not give up her right. She could not.

 	A line of chariots rumbled forward, carrying her challengers. Head held high, she walked to meet them. In the centre of the line was a chariot of incomparable ornamentation which bore Settra’s standard. But it was not Settra himself who rode upon it, Khalida realised with a flicker of relief. The dead thing standing tall on the chariot was not the King of Kings, but instead his herald, Nekaph. Glowing eyes blazed out of a fleshless skull, now inscribed with the titles of his master. His jaw did not move, but all could hear his voice nonetheless. The voice was as deep as the sea and as hard as the mountains. ‘Kneel, Khalida of Lybaras. Kneel before the might of Settra the Imperishable, Khemrikhara, King of All Kings of Nehekhara, Lord of the Earth from Horizons Far to Those Near, Monarch of the Sky and Sea, Mighty Lion of the Sands, Great Scorpion of the Dunes, Beautiful Hawk of the Bright Heavens, Emperor of the Shifting Sands and Sweeping Tides, Master of the Great Land,’ Nekaph rumbled, his words humming in her bones. He extended a hand. ‘Kneel, Hawk of Lahmia, kneel Sister-Queen of Lybaras, kneel Beloved Daughter of the Asp goddess. Kneel, or have your skull added to my collection, Mistress of the Serpent Legion.’ Nekaph lifted the great flail that dangled from his other hand for emphasis. Dozens of skulls hung from it, impaled on bronze chains, their sockets alive with hideous awareness.

 	Khalida knelt, extending her khopesh and staff. Behind her, her legion knelt as well. ‘Welcome, Oh Mighty Voice of Heaven’s Master. Welcome, Herald of the King of Kings and Speaker for the Glorious Dead,’ she said, her voice carrying clearly across the distance.

 	Nekaph nodded brusquely. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘At least you have not forgotten that.’ The flail clattered. ‘Rise, Hawk of the Poison Dunes. Rise and meet my judgment.’

 	Khalida rose smoothly. ‘Judgment, Oh Master of Settra’s Wrath? Have I committed an offense?’

 	‘More than one,’ one of the other kings grated, bones clicking as he gesticulated with pantomime fury. She recognised him as Psashtep of Zandri, one of her challengers from the past few weeks. He motioned sharply with his spear. ‘You dishonour us, Khalida! You make a mockery of Settra’s Edicts!’

 	‘Have I? Or are you merely squalling like a child who feels his punishment is unfair?’ Khalida said. ‘Come then, Fleet-Master, come and test yourself again and let all gathered here see your failure first-hand.’ She spread her arms in invitation. ‘Come one, come all. Never let it be said that Khalida of Lybaras is unwelcoming of her guests.’

 	‘She mocks us. See, Nekaph, see how the Hawk screeches at her betters,’ another king rasped. She recognised Ushtep, his arm re-attached.

 	‘You are no one’s better, bleating goat of Rasetra,’ she said. Ushtep hissed and leapt from his chariot, khopesh in hand. He started forward, but a clatter of Nekaph’s flail stopped him.

 	‘Enough,’ the Herald said. ‘Silence, petty kings; you barked for Settra’s judgment, and so you shall have it.’ He stepped down from his chariot and moved towards Khalida. As he walked, he spoke. ‘Daughter of the Great Land, you hoard honour as a miser hoards wealth. Such is not meet and such is not the Edict of the Light of Heaven Made Manifest, Blessed Be His Name. Will you surrender your post, daughter?’

 	‘I will not. I will hold my place until I am beaten on the Day of Scorpions, as the Edict states,’ Khalida said.

 	‘Such was not the intent,’ Nekaph said solemnly. His wrist bones whispered as they rubbed against one another and the flail of skulls rattled. ‘You must yield, Khalida.’

 	‘I must not, Herald of the Infinite and Imperishable,’ Khalida said, bowing her head. ‘I cannot.’

 	Nekaph stopped. She examined him, even as he did the same to her. Nekaph, it was whispered, even now, was not of the Great Land, but instead of the barbarians of the north. Even in death, even stripped of muscle and meat, he was big. His skull, engraved with the Litany of Settra, was imposing and terrible in the ferocity etched into its grin. His flail, as much a sign of office as it was a weapon, clattered softly, as if in warning. The light in his sockets dimmed. ‘Why?’ he said.

 	Why? The question rattled in her skull. Why? A face within a face swam before her eyes, both familiar, the one loved, the other loathed. ‘Nagash comes. I will face him,’ she said.

 	‘Nagash is dust,’ Nekaph said.

 	‘Nagash stirs,’ Khalida said. ‘The wind from the north blows black, Herald of the Imperishable King. My scouts have seen fires in the night and heard the distant rumble of great mechanisms. A charnel wind blows down upon us, whispering his name.’

 	‘Or perhaps another’s,’ Nekaph said, softly.

 	Khalida stiffened, uncertain. Nekaph continued. ‘Do you hunt Nagash, or his handmaiden?’ He motioned with the flail. ‘The blood-drinkers have been driven from the Great Land. They have been driven from the lands which surround ours. That is enough.’ Nekaph took a step closer. ‘Settra has decreed such. To hold here, to spy and stalk among the living, is to disobey him, Hawk of Lybaras. They will not return. Nagash will not return. Thus speaks Settra.’

 	A drum sounded. Khalida turned as her legions rose and those of the assembled kings shifted in anticipation of treachery. Nekaph grabbed her arm. ‘What is this?’ he said, his tone not quite threatening.

 	‘A warning drum,’ Khalida said, jerking her arm free, ‘From Nagashizzar, Herald.’ Her eyes glowed bright and cold. ‘Someone – something – has come.’ The ratkin had been uncertain, at first, when she offered them the drums. In the years since, they had sounded them less than a handful of times, and never unnecessarily. Deceitful and treacherous as they were, they knew better than to test her patience. Once, a group of barbarians from the north, the Strigoi, had attempted to breach the gates of Nagashizzar. Another time it had been a small group of liches, former servants of Nagash who had not thrown in with Arkhan or one of the less aggrieved Awakened Kings, attempting to infiltrate the citadel and make off with what treasures remained.

 	Nekaph released her. Abruptly he turned and began to bellow orders. Khalida did not wait for him. She ran, fleet-footed, towards her legions. There was no need to shout orders. Her sub-commanders reacted with drilled precision, ordering the raising of the standards and the legion turned about as she raced through their ranks. As she passed the front rank, they fell in behind her, running with all the inhuman fluidity the dead possessed. She heard the thump-thump of the drums of Nekaph’s legion and knew that the Herald at least would follow her.

 	The dead travelled fast, when they wished. In life, her legion could run for a day and a night without rest, and she with them, and they could cover twice the distance of any other force. In death, they were faster still. A day and a night passed and the rocky shores of the Sour Sea gave way to the black marshes, where crooked trees rose from oily water. Hummocks of dry, corrupt-looking earth sprouted at intervals. Some of these were barrows, long buried and forgotten by all but the dead. Others were ruins, left over from Nagash’s time as lord of this filthy place. The marsh grass was stiff and dead and as her legions passed across it, a vast sigh went up and in nearby barrows, the bony fingers of the imprisoned dead scratched vainly at the stones.

 	They reached the slopes of Cripple Peak even as the enemy did, and Khalida felt a flush of something that might have been triumph as she saw the ghostly forms flowing down the slope like an eerie fog. And within that fog, brown, ancient skeletons clad in tattered brown armour moved awkwardly. There were hundreds of them, barely a tenth of the dead of Nagashizzar, but more than enough to give battle to the armies of the tomb kings. The newly-awakened dead moved without the smoothness of those who had made a home in their bones for centuries. Too, these were not the free dead of the Great Land, but enslaved spirits, bound to a single, malignant will. She and every other Nehekharan felt the hammer-blow of that will as the dead of Nagashizzar stalked towards them. No wonder the ratkin had summoned her.

 	‘Is it him?’ Nekaph demanded even as his chariot rumbled up beside her in a cloud of dust. The other kings followed him, subdued. Even Djubti was silent.

 	‘I do not know,’ Khalida said. But she did. If she had still been alive, her heart would have been thundering in her chest. Her mind felt as if a damp blanket had settled over it, and her marrow itched inside the hollows of her bones. It felt as if there were mice loose within her, running and chewing. She had felt it before, in Bel-Aliad, in Sartosa and on that first night, when she had woken in her tomb in Lybaras, her spirit wrenched from its eternal flight and chained within the mummified husk prepared by her priests and servants. She looked at Nekaph, and she knew that he felt it as well, as did each and every king, even pitiful examples like Ushtep.

 	The same magic that controlled the pitiful, savage bones loping towards them had awakened the folk of the Great Land centuries before. Nekaph broke the stillness. His skull tilted back and his jaw sagged as an inhuman roar burst forth from the very roots of him. The chariots of the kings lurched forward, leading their legions to war. Khalida lifted her khopesh and gave a dry, ululating cry. Bows were bent back and arrows punctured the sky as her legion responded with inhuman precision. In life, they could fire three arrows as fast as they could take a step. In death, it was five.

 	Brown bones slumped, shattered or knocked sprawling by the rain of arrows. The chariots of Nekaph and the rest reached them a moment later. The Herald’s skull-flail snapped out in lethal arcs as he drove into the disorganised mass of the enemy dead. Khalida followed his trail, her khopesh licking out to put an end to those things still capable of movement. The air was thick and she could feel the ghostly fingers of a necromancer prying at her thoughts.

 	Nekaph staggered on his chariot and she knew something similar was happening to him. To all the kings, she realised a moment later, as Ushtep’s blade barely missed cleaving her skull. The fire in his eyes had changed colour and his lips wriggled like worms on his skull as he attacked her. He was not the only one, and legion turned on legion as the unseen necromancer pulled on the skeins of magics which bound their souls. Khalida wasted no words on Ushtep. Her khopesh flashed, cutting through his spine and he fell in two places, twitching and cursing. One of her own warriors jabbed at her with a spear even as one of the brown-boned dead of Nagashizzar attached her with a crude sword. She caught both weapons on her staff and khopesh and she and her opponents turned in a circle. A blast of crackling fire consumed one a moment later and she swiftly dispatched the other, nodding her thanks to Djubti.

 	‘Someone plays with us,’ she said.

 	‘He’ll regret that, soon enough,’ Djubti said. He pointed. ‘The Herald needs help.’

 	Khalida turned. Nekaph’s chariot was under attack by the wraiths she’d seen earlier. Ghostly warriors crawled all over the Herald’s war-chariot, striking at him with ethereal weapons. He roared and swung his flail, his blows tearing through the foggy substance of the phantoms and dispersing them.

 	She ran towards the Herald. But someone else got there first.

 	A pale shape, graceful and lethal, seemed to swim through the air. A sword came down, chopping into the Herald’s collarbone. Nekaph grappled with his attacker as his chariot continued to plunge through the enemy. The Herald was off-balance, but even one-handed, he was as dangerous as anything that stalked the Great Land. He grabbed a handful of black hair, yanking his opponent’s head back and something in Khalida cried out as she recognised her cousin.

 	Neferata, Queen of the City of the Dawn, had returned to Nehekhara.

 	She moved like a snake, bending and twisting, her sword flashing up to cut through her hair, sacrificing it for freedom. The sword came around quickly, almost too quickly for Khalida to follow. But not too quickly for her to block as she leapt onto the side of her chariot and interposed her staff. Neferata snarled and her eyes widened. ‘Cousin,’ Khalida said.

 	‘No!’ Neferata shrieked, flipping backwards onto the skeletal spine of one of the horses pulling the chariot. Khalida stepped onto the front of the chariot without hesitation. Nekaph said something, but she ignored him. She set her foot on the bony shank of the horse and propelled herself towards her cousin. Neferata brought her sword around and the khopesh grated against it. The tableau held for an eye-blink and then both were falling through the air.

 	Khalida felt her bones burst and re-knit even as she bounded to her feet and lunged through the dust of their impact. Neferata met her, eyes blazing, fangs bared. They strained against one another as chariots and skeletal horsemen swept around them in a wild circle. ‘Surrender, cousin,’ Khalida said. ‘There is no escape this time.’

 	‘No,’ Neferata said. ‘There is always an escape!’ She drove Khalida back, battering her weapons aside and raising her blade. Khalida waited. Neferata hesitated, the snarl slipping from her face, replaced by – what? ‘Little hawk…’ she began, longing in every syllable.

 	Then Djubti was there and the moment was lost. The liche priest flung out a hand as he approached and Neferata screamed as her body withered. She staggered back, looking at her hands in horror as her unnatural vitality was drained from her. As Khalida watched, porcelain flesh grew leathery and wrinkled and Neferata’s human face shrank into a beast’s muzzle, like the silently shrieking faces of the desiccated bats she saw sometimes, in the deep places of the mountains. Eyes flashing, Neferata lunged awkwardly at the liche priest, who froze in shock. Only Khalida’s staff, snapping down on her cousin’s back, saved him from having his head torn from his shoulders. She knocked Neferata flat and pressed the butt of her staff to the back of her cousin’s head. Neferata struggled and snapped and snarled, and Khalida saw another form writhing within her, another spirit all tangled up with hers.

 	Then, abruptly, Neferata fell still. Her flesh filled out, black veins bulging as whatever dark magic held her frozen in time reasserted itself. Khalida stepped back, and Neferata rose, eyes glinting. The desperation that had been etched on her face before was gone. She looked around coolly. ‘Well then,’ she said. ‘I surrender. What now?’

 	Neferata was quickly bound in chains of bone and bronze, and her mind and spirit tied by the magic of the liche priests. Each king had brought one, and Nekaph had brought several. The last of the Nagashizzar dead had collapsed like puppets with their strings cut when Neferata had fallen and there was no sign of anyone else, dead or alive.

 	Khalida knew that appearances could be deceiving, especially where her cousin was concerned. Why had she given up so easily? She watched her. Haughty, head held high, Neferata seemed to give no consideration to her captivity. She might as well have been strolling through the gardens of Lahmia.

 	‘Did you find the magic-users?’ Khalida said as Djubti approached her.

 	‘You do not believe it was her? She stinks of Nagash’s dark arts,’ Djubti said.

 	‘It was not her mind I felt, trying to control mine. Have you found them?’

 	‘No. Nekaph has ordered scouts to search the hills and marsh, but–’

 	‘He does not care,’ Khalida said. ‘They are gone and we have her, and that is enough.’

 	Djubti shrugged, his dried flesh creaking. ‘Isn’t it? It is what you wanted, isn’t it?’ He grinned at her, exposing blackened teeth. ‘You are vindicated and avenged, all at once.’

 	‘Am I?’ Khalida said, looking at Neferata. Nekaph and the other kings had gathered and Neferata was brought before them, surrounded by a web of spears.

 	‘She is beaten,’ Djubti said.

 	Neferata flipped the coloured tile and leaned back. ‘What do you see, little hawk?’ she said. Khalida looked at the game-board and shook her head in frustration.

 	‘I am beaten,’ she said.

 	‘Are you?’

 	‘I have no moves left,’ Khalida said, gesturing morosely to the board.

 	‘There are always moves,’ Neferata said, rising. ‘Here, I will show you. Switch places with me.’

 	‘There are always moves,’ Khalida said softly.

 	‘What?’

 	Khalida ignored him and went to join the others. Nekaph looked at her. ‘It seems, Hawk of Lybaras, that I owe you a debt,’ he said, his skull cocked. Khalida did not reply. Neferata glared at her, as did several of the gathered kings. Nekaph stepped forward, his skull-flail twisting in his grip. ‘Neferata of Lahmia, kneel before the Hand of the Infinite Desert and receive his justice.’

 	‘Kneel?’ Neferata threw back her head and laughed deeply. ‘Neferata does not kneel, liche. It is you who should kneel before me.’ As she spoke, Khalida felt a deep, old ache in her bones. One of the other kings shuddered and she knew that it was not just Neferata who spoke. She knew what possessed her cousin. They all did, even grim Nekaph, who hesitated and then stepped back. ‘No, I do not kneel, dead things. No, I-I…’ It was Neferata’s turn to hesitate. The fire in her eyes dimmed, and for a moment, just a moment, the evil in her features seemed to dissipate. She shook her head and the fire was back and the malevolence.

 	‘Kill her,’ a king said. Others took up the cry. It echoed up and down the ranks. ‘Kill the spawn of Nagash!’

 	Nekaph raised a hand and silence fell. ‘That is Settra’s Edict,’ he said solemnly. ‘Death to the Bringers of Death, Death to those who bear the Taint of Him Who Has Been Struck from the Rolls of the Priesthood, Death to the Drinkers of Blood and the Eaters of Flesh.’ He looked at Neferata. ‘Death, the final death, Neferata of Lahmia, and Usirian will receive thy spirit.’

 	‘No,’ Khalida said, before she even realised that she had spoken.

 	Nekaph paused. He looked at her. ‘Speak, Queen of Lybaras.’

 	‘Neferata is a queen of the Great Land. She is not a dog to be executed,’ Khalida said. ‘She is owed trial by combat.’

 	‘We owe her nothing,’ Nekaph said.

 	‘Perhaps, but you said you owed me a debt, Herald of Settra. And this is my payment.’ Khalida thumped the ground with her staff. ‘I, Khalida of Lybaras, Hawk of the Desert, challenge Neferata of Lahmia,’ she called out. ‘If she wins, she is free to leave, as the gods wish it.’

 	A rumble of protest rose from the gathered kings. Nekaph ignored it. He looked at her. ‘Is this truly what you wish?’ he said.

 	Khalida looked at Neferata, who was studying her with veiled interest. She looked back at Nekaph. ‘Yes.’

 	‘So be it.’ Nekaph raised his hand. ‘Neferata of Lahmia, do you accept the challenge of Khalida of Lybaras?’

 	Khalida looked at her cousin. Neferata met her gaze and her dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. Then, she nodded. Nekaph chopped down with his hand. ‘So be it.’

 	Khalida stepped past him, well aware of the hostility in the gazes of the audience for the coming performance. Neferata shrugged off her chains as the liche priests mumbled and gestured, releasing the myriad bindings. Neferata’s eyes flickered first to Khalida and then north. Khalida tossed her khopesh at Neferata’s feet.

 	‘How long must our dance be, cousin?’ she said.

 	‘I have no intention of dying here,’ Neferata said, scooping the blade up and testing its weight. Khalida circled her slowly, languidly spinning her staff.

 	‘Why did you come back then?’ Khalida said.

 	‘My reasons are my own, cousin,’ Neferata said. Sand billowed and then she was slicing through the air, the khopesh biting for Khalida’s head. The staff drove the blade aside and Khalida spun it, driving the butt into Neferata’s belly and knocked her from the air. Neferata sprang to her feet and the blade licked out, cutting into Khalida’s thigh. Neferata dodged the staff, rolling across the sand and bounding up, cutting across Khalida’s back.

 	Khalida staggered forward and sank to her knees as the khopesh cut the air over her head. Bending backwards, she let the staff shoot through her hands to catch Neferata in the jaw, dropping her flat to the ground. Khalida rose smoothly, turned and lunged, stabbing the ground with the staff as Neferata rolled aside desperately. She came up with a howl and the khopesh drew sparks as it bit into the staff. Cousin strained against cousin for a moment before they broke apart and circled one another.

 	‘What did you come hunting, cousin?’ Khalida said. ‘You found it, I’d wager, or you’d never have gotten close to us.’

 	Neferata smiled wickedly. ‘No?’

 	‘You are a distraction. Wave with the right while stabbing with the left, that was what you taught me,’ Khalida said. ‘You let us capture you, confident that you could escape, and all to distract us from – what? It was not you who controlled the dead, was it?’

 	‘It is of no moment, now. How long have you waited for this, little hawk?’ Neferata said, avoiding the question. ‘How long have you yearned to have me all to yourself?’

 	‘Centuries,’ Khalida answered bluntly. ‘You are a question which nags, cousin. I would have answers.’

 	Neferata looked puzzled. Then she laughed harshly. ‘You are not a child, Khalida. I no longer have to answer your foolish questions.’

 	‘Do not be afraid to ask questions, little hawk,’ Neferata said, leaning over her as she studied the scrolls. ‘Only by asking can you learn what is necessary.’

 	‘Why don’t you age?’ Khalida said, not looking up. She felt Neferata tense.

 	‘I-that is not necessary for you to know.’

 	‘Are you blessed by the gods?’

 	Neferata pushed away from the table and laughed softly. ‘Yes, of sorts. Read me what you have written.’

 	‘It was a poem,’ Khalida said, easily blocking Neferata’s blow.

 	‘What was a poem? What are you muttering about, liche?’ Neferata hissed, scrambling back as Khalida swung her staff.

 	‘It was a poem about you, about queens and their masks. You read it at the feast that night and embarrassed me in front of Anhur,’ she said, and Neferata blanched at the mention of her husband’s name. He was one of the few who had not awoken. Anhur of Lybaras remained in his tomb, sleeping. ‘Later, he said it was then that he began to look forward to our marriage.’

 	‘I-you were always so boyish, never sitting still,’ Neferata said, shaking her head, her eyes unfocused. ‘He needed to see that there was more to you than the warrior. He needed to see that you had a mind and a soul. Not like Lamashizzar.’

 	Khalida struck. Her staff whistled as it descended towards Neferata’s head. The vampire caught the staff-head in her hand and flung it aside. The khopesh drew dust from Khalida’s side. She stepped back, feeling nothing. ‘Did he weep for me?’ Neferata said nothing. ‘Did you?’ Khalida pressed.

 	‘I never stopped,’ Neferata hissed, striking with the speed of an asp. It was Khalida’s turn to grab her opponent’s weapon. She jerked Neferata off her feet and sent her tumbling to the ground. Neferata snarled and whirled, backhanding Khalida as she closed. Both women picked themselves up slowly.

 	‘Yet you continued on,’ Khalida said. ‘Lahmia burned, cousin. And Lybaras, and Khemri and all of the cities of the Great Land, they all burned because of you.’

 	‘No!’ Neferata screamed, lunging wildly. Khalida interposed her staff, catching the khopesh. No sparks this time. Instead, driven by Neferata’s savage strength, the blade sank into the staff. They spun in a weird parody of a child’s dance.

 	‘And now you serve him who burned them,’ Khalida said. ‘Now you bow and scrape at the Usurper’s feet; are you his dog, Neferata? Are you a tool,’ Khalida said, forcing Neferata back.

 	‘No man commands me, living or dead!’ Neferata snapped, wrenching the khopesh free. Blade and staff connected in a flurry of ringing blows. ‘Not Lamashizzar, not these dead kings and certainly not Nagash.’ Neferata winced even as the words left her mouth. Khalida broke from her.

 	‘The asp conceals its fangs, until it is within striking range. Serve, until you can strike,’ Neferata said, tapping the pile of scrolls with the one she clutched in her hand. ‘The cities strive against one another, pitting strength against strength. But–’

 	‘War has more than one form,’ Khalida said, repeating her cousin’s words. Neferata smiled and tapped Khalida’s nose with the scroll.

 	‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Weakness can be as deadly a weapon as a sword or spear, if wielded expertly. I show the other cities our weaknesses and let them draw their conclusions, while hiding our strengths. Strike when your opponent believes he is strongest, for that is when he is not paying attention.’

 	‘I learned much from you cousin,’ Khalida said. ‘I learned to use weakness as a weapon.’

 	‘Yes, and in the end, it got you killed,’ Neferata spat. The khopesh sang off the staff.

 	‘You hid your strength. I did not know how far you would go to satisfy your ambition,’ Khalida said. ‘You killed me, cousin, and you killed our people, all for your ambition. Can you do it again?’

 	‘What?’ Neferata said, hesitating.

 	Khalida spread her arms. ‘Strike, Neferata. Strike and be free.’ Neferata sprang forward, khopesh raised. But she did not strike. The blade trembled in her hands. Her face contorted as if she were in pain. ‘Strike,’ Khalida hissed, ‘Strike!’

 	Neferata blinked. Her mouth worked, but no sound came out. Her eyes widened and Khalida wondered what she was seeing. Were the blood-drinkers as prone to waking dreams as the dead? ‘I-I can’t,’ Neferata hissed, the words leaking out from between her fangs.

 	Khalida closed her eyes. Again she saw the battles of Sartosa and Bel-Aliad and even that first, final, fatal fight with her cousin’s tormented features above her, begging her to live. Neferata had not struck then either, Khalida suddenly recalled. And, remembering, she lunged. Time slowed. She extended her staff forward like a spear. She could easily perforate her cousin’s breastbone and burst her heart with a single thrust. Instead, Khalida twitched her wrists, letting the head of the staff brush Neferata’s side. To any watching, it would appear that she had misjudged the angle of the blow in her eagerness. As she’d hoped, Neferata’s arm instinctively snapped down, trapping her staff. She caught Neferata’s sword arm and released her staff, turning both hands to grappling with her cousin, wrestling for the blade. Neferata hissed and snarled as they fought and Khalida twisted the blade so that it was caught between them. Then, with an exhalation of dusty air, Khalida jerked Neferata forward and was impaled on the curve of the khopesh even as she had been centuries before.

 	She sank down, dragging Neferata with her. She heard an angry roar from the assembled kings, but paid it no heed. There was no pain, only satisfaction. Weakness was a weapon. Men, dead or alive, did not understand that. Nagash did not understand that. But she did. And she understood one other thing.

 	Neferata stared down at her. ‘What-what–’

 	‘You never struck me. Not once,’ Khalida said. ‘Even now, even with him riding you, you did not strike me.’ That hesitation had proved what she had not even dared to hope. It proved that within the fury crouching over her, there was something besides the blood of Nagash. That Neferata was still Neferata, despite everything. Changed, mad, but still the same haughty, cunning, cruel and kind cousin she remembered.

 	She grabbed Neferata’s hair and pulled her close. ‘Listen to me, cousin. It is my turn to be the teacher. When your opponent smiles in triumph, spit into his teeth and when he laughs loud, laugh louder. Spite is your greatest weapon, besides your mind, because in spite, all things are possible. Kings can be made to grovel for spite. Peasants may be raised to lofty heights and the strongest warrior gutted, all for spite. Spite is whimsy sharpened to a killing point and with it you will be unpredictable.’

 	‘What are you saying?’ Neferata said, staring at her in incomprehension.

 	‘Deep wells fill slowly,’ Khalida said, stroking her hair. ‘And they empty quickly.’ She released Neferata. Neferata stood quickly and reeled back. Khalida lay back and twisted her head. Nekaph strode towards them. She raised a hand. ‘Justice is served, Herald of Kings,’ she said. ‘She has won her freedom.’

 	Nekaph looked down at her. He knew what she had done. She could see it in the glowing pits of his eyes. Would he deny her? Would he strike regardless? ‘Are you certain?’ he said.

 	‘She has won.’

 	Nekaph looked at Neferata, who faced him without flinching. Then, with an imperious gesture, he said, ‘You may leave, freely and unmolested, Queen of Lahmia. But if you ever set foot within the Great Land, you will not find me so merciful.’

 	Neferata smirked and made to speak. But she fell silent as her eyes met Khalida’s. Khalida thought of those who had tried to control her cousin. Kings and priests and gods had failed, and been trod beneath Neferata’s sandaled feet for the trying. What hope had some old dead thing like Nagash? Neferata might serve him now, but she had served Lamashizzar as well, and Lahmia and Nehekhara and Asaph. ‘Neferata does not kneel. No one commands her,’ Khalida said softly, wishing she could smile.

 	A confused expression passed across Neferata’s face and Khalida knew that her cousin had heard her. Neferata turned and walked away. The legions of the dead stepped aside, forming a corridor of bone and bronze for the last Queen of Lahmia to leave the Great Land.

 	‘Be true to your ambition, cousin,’ Khalida whispered. ‘Sink your fangs deep and do not let go.’ Then the Queen of Lybaras closed her eyes and fell into the waiting ocean of better times, when a girl had learned the forms of war and weakness from her beloved cousin.