And through it all, the Handmaidens of the Moon had whispered quiet counsel to the chieftains and their fathers and their father’s-fathers. Religion was a subtle lever and the invented ones were the subtlest of all, Neferata had found. The Nehekharan religions were anathema to the wildlings, representing Strigos as they did in their eyes. She had been forced to come up with something innovative. Thus, the Handmaidens of the Moon; she had taken a minor hill-goddess called Shaya and crafted a more pleasing image for her, a goddess of healing and mercy, whose adherents were allowed to travel between the barbarian kingdoms without fear of reprisal. No man, no matter how powerful or paranoid, would willingly turn away skilled healers. Or, even better, skilled healers who were willing to act as messengers between men of status who could not ordinarily make contact without upsetting their bloodthirsty followers and rivals. And who would say a word about the Handmaidens and their propensity for nocturnal travel, or the savage vengeance visited upon those who dared test the protection extended to them by their goddess?
She smiled. The Fennones, in particular, had taken to the new goddess. And their traders had carried the faith ever westwards, into the savage lands beyond the forests of their territories. The snort of a horse brought her out of her contemplative reverie.
The wildling chieftains were not natural riders, and it showed in their clumsy attempts to urge their horses to greater speeds. Their bodyguards were little better. In comparison, Neferata and her handmaidens, as well as the select few Strigoi allowed to accompany them for form’s sake, rode as if they had been born in the saddle.
‘Usirian’s teeth,’ Vorag swore. ‘These hairy bastards ride like drunken urka.’ The Strigoi’s horse flew through the trees like a hawk, and its rider was fighting an obvious battle to control the inhuman savagery lurking within him. In the years since their first meeting, Neferata had noticed that Ushoran’s blood-progeny had more problems in that regard than her own. Something bestial lurked beneath the skin of the vampires of Strigos, as if the dark magic which inundated the mountains had twisted them in some way.
‘It was your idea to fill their bellies with wine before we started the hunt,’ Stregga said, forcing her horse between Vorag’s and Neferata’s. Vorag barked laughter and followed after her, lust evident in his expression.
Stregga had pinned the Strigoi’s ears back, and quicker than Neferata could have hoped. At least some things were going according to plan. Vorag’s exile was no longer a topic of discussion at court, thanks to Neferata’s agents. In the years since she had begun planning the extinction of the orc tribes that still squatted within the boundaries of Ushoran’s ever-expanding empire, she had taken Vorag as her right hand, and bought his loyalty with her salt.
The Bloodytooth was no longer Ushoran’s creature, if he ever had been. And he made a satisfactory replacement for Khaled, being both altogether more biddable and less prone to questioning her. Thought of Khaled made her frown. He was still playing shield-bearer to Ushoran, and was invited to all of the counsels and quiet meetings that her former Lord of Masks thought she was unaware of.
There was no question that Ushoran trusted her Kontoi. But should she?
A howl alerted her that their prey had come to bay at last. Horns bellowing, the hunters burst through the trees to confront the beastmen. The creatures screamed and howled as the riders flooded over them. Hunting spears pinned writhing, hairy shapes to the forest floor.
Neferata pulled her horse up short, letting the others indulge their bloodlust on the pathetic goat-things. ‘Good sport, lady,’ someone grunted. She turned and smiled serenely at Volker. Iona sat just behind him, her attention split between the object of her seduction and the dying beast-things. The crimson-haired vampire’s face was twisted by feral hunger.
She examined the chieftain of the Draesca. He was broad, but short and gnarled. His beard was thick and tangled and his armour was of the crudest variety — beaten bronze plates sewn to a boiled leather jerkin with deer gut. His hair was held back from his leathery face by a band of gold that had probably belonged to a dwarf lord at some point in time. Dark eyes peered from beneath bushy eyebrows at her.
‘I’m glad to see you enjoying yourself, great chieftain,’ Neferata said. ‘And I am glad to see you that you’re enjoying my gift as well.’ She nodded to Iona, who put her hand on Volker’s brawny forearm. The chieftain gave a gap-toothed grin and patted the girl’s pale hand.
‘Truly the Strigoi are a blessed people to have such women spring from them,’ Volker grunted, eyeing her speculatively. ‘A shame that you yourself are spoken for,’ he added.
‘Yes, well,’ Neferata said, looking over at the massacre that was occurring only a short distance away. One of the beasts had broken past the horsemen and, bleating, charged towards them, waving a notched and rusty blade. ‘Your spear, if you please,’ she said, extending her hand to Volker, who guffawed and handed the weapon to her. She bounced it on her palm and then, in one smooth motion, hurled it into the charging beastman. It folded over the spear and collapsed with a single, strangled whine. Volker nodded appreciatively.
‘Yes, quite a shame,’ he muttered. ‘The Wald and the Draka are quite impressed with you.’
Neferata said nothing. Volker’s previous cheer had disappeared. He frowned, his face becoming even more apelike. ‘But the Draesca are not the Wald or the Draka. We are a proud people, and it will take more than Strigoi women or Strigoi wine to make us share blood and bone with you.’
‘I know,’ Neferata said. ‘But if blood and bone don’t serve, what about blades?’ she asked.
‘Are you threatening us?’ Volker grunted incredulously.
‘Nothing of the sort,’ Neferata said, kneeing her horse towards the beastman she had spitted. Without a trace of effort she jerked the spear from its body and rode back towards Volker. ‘You know of the dawi, I trust?’
Volker sat back on his saddle and tugged on his beard. ‘Aye,’ he said suspiciously.
‘The dawi are the finest weapons-makers in the world,’ Neferata said, extending the spear so that the tip rested beneath Volker’s nose. ‘This spear, for instance.’
Volker grabbed the weapon and looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. He rubbed his calloused thumb along the edge. His eyes flickered up to Neferata. ‘You would trade us weapons?’
‘I would.’
‘For what price would you do this?’
‘Blood and bone,’ Neferata said, smiling.
Later, as the hunters, now satiated, rode back towards Mourkain, Stregga’s horse fell into a trot beside Neferata’s. ‘Vorag is eager for the coming war, my lady,’ the vampire said.
‘Then he’ll fit right in with these barbarians,’ Neferata murmured. ‘What else?’
‘He’s angry. The northern expedition—’
‘The northern expedition is nothing.’ Neferata shook her head. Vorag’s temper was like a storm. It was a constant struggle to keep it in check and to keep it from upsetting her delicate web of schemes. Still, he was less disruptive than Khaled. ‘Assure him that there will be glory aplenty in the mountains. He will once more be the saviour of Strigos, and Abhorash will not be around to steal his victory.’ The Great Land was gone, and Ushoran’s attempt to recreate it was doomed to failure. But there might be something worth saving from those ashes, Neferata thought. A society that could be moulded into something greater than it currently was. The way forward was not as the wolf or the leopard, but as the flea or the tick. A dead host was nothing but rotten meat. But a live one could keep her and her followers in comfort for eternity.
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.