Morath was unusual. The only breathing man in the room, the Strigoi was slim, with the look of a poet, rather than a warrior. He was as dangerous as any member of the Strigoi nobility, however, having been schooled in the arts of blade and bow since childhood. If he lacked Vorag’s obvious muscle, he more than made up for it with a subtlety of wit that Neferata found refreshing. He was perhaps the only civilised man in Mourkain. It was a shame that he had been pledged to W’soran’s service by Ushoran. Then, that was perhaps one of the few intelligent decisions that his majesty had made. Ushoran knew that W’soran couldn’t be trusted, and that it was only a matter of time before he vanished or tried something, and left Strigos bereft of his magics.
But Morath, above all else, was loyal to Strigos; the ideal, if not the men who made it. He sat near his master, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Neferata could understand that as well. W’soran grew more inhuman-looking every year, with pronounced bat-like ears and a face out of nightmare. Thin, gangly arms protruded from the too-tattered sleeves of his robes, clutching tight to a messy pile of parchment, which he thrust at Ushoran as the latter entered the room. Ushoran scanned the parchment and grunted.
Shoving it back into W’soran’s hands, he said, ‘Abhorash, the map.’ Abhorash unrolled a large bear-hide. On the opposite side from the fur, a great map had been inked in painstaking and impressive detail. ‘Cartography is a rare skill, and one I have cultivated among my servants,’ Ushoran said. He swept a hand across a section of the map. ‘Orcs, barbarians and beasts — those are the enemies we face, my friends.’
Abhorash snorted. ‘Those are not enemies. Those are obstacles.’
‘Nonetheless, I need them not to be,’ Ushoran said. He looked at Neferata. ‘I need them gone.’
‘Orcs are easy,’ Vorag said. ‘If we can hit them hard enough and fast enough…’
‘We don’t have the men,’ Abhorash said, arms crossed. ‘It’s all we can do to hold the mountain passes…’
‘We don’t need them!’ Vorag snapped. Abhorash gazed at him steadily, but said nothing.
‘The barbarians are trickier,’ Morath spoke up, tapping the map. ‘The tribes are constantly changing size as they fight amongst themselves, and they change chieftains almost as often. We never deal with the same one twice.’
‘One barbarian is much the same as another,’ W’soran said dismissively.
‘And because you think that is why I am here.’ Neferata studied the map. ‘How big an empire do you desire, Ushoran?’ she said after a moment.
‘Why?’ Ushoran said.
‘Merely defining the limits of my authority,’ she said. Ushoran looked at her. She smiled. ‘The orcs are a problem. Diplomacy will be useless. But there are other ways of countering their numbers.’ She flattened her palm on the map and looked at Abhorash. ‘How would you describe the creatures, champion?’
‘A force of nature,’ he said.
‘Like a flood, say, or an avalanche?’ Neferata said. Abhorash nodded. Neferata patted the map. ‘The mountains form a natural culvert, and the orcs have, by and large, filled that culvert. They attack, because they have nowhere else to go. And the more they attack, the more of them are drawn into the culvert, seeking the battle they crave.’
‘Every time we force them back, it’s like dumping water into a leaky bucket,’ Abhorash said, nodding more fiercely. ‘We have to plug the hole.’
‘What hole? What are you talking about?’ Ushoran snapped.
‘I’m talking about ridding your lands of the orcs forever. We need to break their spine, to harry them out of the places they congregate and pulverise them as they are forced out into the light,’ Neferata said, making a fist. ‘They will eventually regroup, but we can buy ourselves several generations at least before their numbers swell to such proportions again.’
‘And how will you do that? As he’s pointed out,’ Vorag said, gesturing to Abhorash, ‘we don’t have enough men for the job.’
‘Perhaps not living men, no,’ W’soran began, eyes alight with interest. ‘I could—’
‘No,’ Neferata said flatly. ‘We have an opportunity here that must not be squandered simply for expediency’s sake.’
‘You spoke of the wildling tribes earlier,’ Ushoran said, stroking his chin.
‘Not just them. If you desire expansion, we’ll need closer ties with the Silver Pinnacle.’ She tapped the marker for the dwarf hold. It had taken her spies years to discover its whereabouts; the dwarfs used trading posts to ferry their goods to Mourkain, so protective were they of the whereabouts of their hold. ‘We must share more than gold with them…’
‘Blood,’ Abhorash said.
Neferata nodded. ‘They’re pressed just as hard as we are by the orc migrations. If we were to offer them a more proactive alliance…’
Ushoran sat back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. Finally, he said, ‘What would you need?’
‘Vorag,’ Neferata said immediately. Vorag blinked, and then slowly grinned. ‘We’ll need to move quickly. The tribes will do our heavy fighting for us.’
‘Yes, you still haven’t said how you intend to accomplish that,’ W’soran said. ‘The Draesca and the other wildlings have no love for Strigos.’
Neferata smiled. ‘You have your secrets, sorcerer. Let me have mine.’
When the council had ended some hours later, Neferata returned to her chambers. Naaima waited for her there. ‘It’s time,’ she said.
‘I sent the girls out at sunset,’ Naaima said.
‘As always, you predict my needs,’ Neferata murmured, sipping her second goblet more slowly. ‘They have their instructions, then?’
‘Yes, and the tribes await their coming. Beautiful daughters of the high agals of Strigos, wedded to the chieftains of the tribes.’
‘Blood is a stronger bond than gold. Longer lasting as well,’ Neferata said, falling into a hard stone chair. ‘The girls will choose handmaidens of their own from the high women of the tribes and those women will control their husbands and the tribes…’ Neferata gestured with her free hand and smiled. ‘Has Rasha returned?’
‘Yes,’ Naaima said. ‘The orcs are moving west, towards the ranges where the Silver Pinnacle sits. It will be a year at least before they attempt to mount an assault, or try and return here.’
‘Like water sloshing in a bowl. First one side and then the other,’ Neferata said. She added, ‘The trick being to get the water to slop out without getting wet.’
‘It sounds like quite the trick, then,’ Naaima said. ‘And how will you do it?’
Neferata smiled. ‘Why, by letting someone else hold the bowl, of course.’
EIGHT
Neferata reclined in her palanquin, protected from the sun by curtains of muslin and silk. Cushions of all shapes, sizes and colours decorated the interior and she smiled as Anmar lounged across them like a cat. The corner of the girl’s mouth was streaked with blood and her eyes held the dreamy gleam of one who had fed well and deeply.
She was so like Khalida, albeit lacking in the natural ferocity that Neferata’s long-dead cousin had possessed. Tenderly, Neferata reached out and rubbed the drying blood from Anmar’s mouth. ‘Your brother has been up to something,’ she said.
‘My brother is always up to something,’ Anmar said lazily. She pushed herself up. ‘You are not angry, are you, my lady?’ she said.
‘I encourage initiative,’ Neferata said. ‘Don’t I, Naaima, my sweet?’