—<EIGHTEEN>—

Portents of Doom

Lahmia, the City of the Dawn, in the 107th year of Ptra the Glorious
(-1200 Imperial Reckoning)

 

 

Down in the temple quarter, the great prayer lamps had been lit for the first time in hundreds of years. From his perch atop the square roof of a nobleman’s residence close to the royal palace, Ushoran could hear the faint chanting of the priests and the frightened, almost pleading cries of the throng that filled the great square outside the decaying temples. Elsewhere, the great city was dark and still, even though the hour was early by Lahmian standards. He could remember a time when the market squares and the pleasure districts were noisy and bustling well past midnight, and richly-appointed palanquins would come and go at all hours between the houses on the city’s great hill and the gambling dens down near the docks. Now the houses were shuttered; the houses of pleasure had shut their doors. Even down in the harbour, the crews of the trading ships went below and barred the hatchways leading to the upper decks. Those citizens who weren’t begging for deliverance down in the temple quarter were huddled in the darkness, fearful of the terrible omen that stained the eastern sky.

No one could say for certain what it was. Certainly no one alive in Nehekhara had ever seen such a sight. It stretched like a streamer of glowing smoke across the heavens, a twin-tailed pennon of shifting, opalescent colour arcing high above the course of Neru and vengeful Sakhmet. The head of the pennon was rounder and brighter than the rest, shining with nearly the same intensity as Neru herself. It reminded Ushoran of a glowing catapult stone, like the orbs of bone that fell from the sky at Mahrak, so many centuries ago. He remembered the dread he felt, watching them hang suspended in the air over the battlefield, wondering when they would fall.

A palpable sense of doom hung over the city. Lahmia’s citizens were growing desperate; they’d been afraid for much too long, trapped within the walls of the city and watching friends and neighbours go missing, night after night. Ushoran’s agents warned him of angry murmurs in the market squares and the wine shops. People had lost faith in the king and the divinity of the royal bloodline. Offerings at the Temple of Blood had been dwindling for years, then dropped off altogether when the celestial portent appeared. The people of Lahmia were no longer looking to their rulers for succour, which was a very bad sign indeed.

It would only be a matter of time before Neferata noticed the lack of offerings at the temple. Edicts would be issued through the palace, demanding the worship of the people. Blood would flow, but it would be in the gutters of the city rather than the offering bowls of the temple.

At the moment, however, that was the very least of Ushoran’s problems.

The Lord of Masks crouched on the edge of the building’s high roof and launched himself into the air. The steep hill dropped away beneath him and for a dizzying instant he seemed to hang suspended in the warm night air. Ushoran’s lips drew back in a ghastly grin as he plunged earthwards, tasting the salt breeze as he fell towards the close-set roofs of the houses sixty feet below. He landed easily, broad feet splayed across the baked mud bricks, propelling himself forwards on all fours like a loping jungle ape and leaping skywards once more.

Rooftop to rooftop he went, from one quarter to the next, down the long slope and eastwards, towards the docks. The further he went, the more the city’s decline became apparent. The nobles’ quarter was still relatively clean and small groups of paid watchmen stood at the street corners to preserve the illusion of order. The neighbouring district, where the city’s wealthier tradesmen and ship owners lived, was filled with walled homes that had been turned into small fortresses over the years and were now showing signs of increasing decrepitude. More than once, Ushoran’s preternatural senses detected groups of night watchmen prowling the courtyards of the wealthier homes, or peering into the darkness from shadowed rooftops. None marked his swift and silent passage—or if they did, they huddled in fear and dared give no alarm, for fear of drawing attention to themselves.

Where the money ended, the city’s decline became sharply apparent. Past the tradesmen’s district were the modest, single-storey homes of Lahmia’s ship fitters and dockhands, which Ushoran had come to know well. Once, in the heyday of trade with the Silk Lands, the district had been bustling and well kept, if rough about the edges. Now it was dark and squalid. Piles of refuse rotted in the alleyways and behind the shuttered shops and the mud-brick walls of the homes were pitted and crumbling from neglect. Many of the families kept dogs in their courtyards and homes, to keep thieves—and packs of hungry rats—at bay. One began barking hysterically as Ushoran landed upon its master’s roof, prompting others to take up the cry as well. By the time he reached the far end of the district, the air was full of their harsh, yapping cries.

Further east, conditions grew steadily worse. Poor neighbourhoods where unskilled day labourers had once been able to live and eke out a meagre existence had become despair-ridden slums. Empty, crumbling homes presided over streets filled with puddles of liquid excrement that had seeped to the surface from blocked or broken sewer pipes. It was not uncommon to find corpses rolled into the filthy gutters, where they would fall prey to rats or packs of hungry dogs. The people living in the decrepit buildings were little better than animals themselves. For a while they had offered Ushoran some interesting sport, but he’d quickly tired of their dead eyes and scrawny, battered bodies.

Beyond the slums lay the sprawling merchant districts, markets and pleasure dens that were fed by the sea trade and catered to rich and poor alike. This was the true heart of the ancient city, where the people of Lahmia made and lost their fortunes, celebrated victories or drowned their sorrows with wine, lotus or the pleasures of the flesh. During the glory days of Lamashizzar’s reign, when the city was the richest in the civilised world, the shops never closed and throngs of people from all over Nehekhara would ebb and flow through the streets in a human tide. No more; now most of the merchants and wine-sellers barred their doors at sunset and the dens of vice were frequented only by the wretched and the desperate.

Ushoran alighted upon the roof of a shuttered wine-seller and crouched there, listening intently. The murmur of the multitudes in the temple district and the chorus of barking dogs at his back blended together into a surf-like rumble of distant noise. The immortal closed his eyes, breathing deeply and tasting the air for a very particular scent. His head turned slowly left and right, searching for telltale sounds among the streets and alleyways between him and the docks.

He crouched that way for hours, arms wrapped around his knees, listening and tasting the scents of the furtive world around him. He heard the shuffling footsteps of beggars, the phlegmatic murmurs of drunkards and the tremulous invitations of street-corner whores. Once, he cocked his head at the sounds of a scuffle in a nearby alley. Fists pounded into flesh and a man grunted in pain. When Ushoran heard a pair of voices arguing over the man’s meagre possessions he settled back down with a scowl and continued his vigil.

Finally, well past midnight, came the sounds that he had been waiting for. Off to the south-east, perhaps four or five streets away, the strangled shout of a man, followed by the frantic, hysterical shrieks of a young woman. Then, moments later, Ushoran caught the coppery, acrid scent of fresh blood.

The immortal sprang into motion, leaping across alleys and rooftops in the direction of the screams. By the time the woman’s shrieks came to an abrupt end, Ushoran was only two streets away. The smell of spilled blood burned in his nostrils and set his cold flesh tingling. It drew him unerringly, like iron to a lodestone.

At the last moment, as he crossed the rooftop of a dice house that rose above the source of the tantalising scent, the immortal considered his appearance. Hastily he shrouded his true features with the bland, noble facade he presented to Neferata and the rest of the Blood Court and then leapt lightly down into the alley yawning before him.

He landed amid piles of refuse, startling a pack of enormous rats that had been gathering near the lifeless body of an emaciated woman near the mouth of the alley. Her body lay sprawled in the stinking slime, her shabby robe undone and the side of her head crushed in like a broken wine jar. The whore’s face was frozen in a wide-eyed rictus of terror, her cheeks spotted with droplets of fresh gore.

“She wouldn’t stop screaming.”

Ushoran turned at the sound of the high-pitched, nasal voice. To his right, less than a dozen feet away, a heavyset man lay sprawled in a pile of rubbish, limbs contorted in death. The corpse’s head had been pulled back and the thick neck torn open, exposing glistening bits of broken cartilage. Blood soaked the front of the corpse’s brown robes and spattered the rubbish pile in a wide arc to either side of the body.

A slender figure in dark, filthy robes crouched over the man’s ravaged corpse, dark blood drooling from his chin. Zurhas had changed a great deal since Ushoran had seen him last. His flesh was white as a corpse and glowed with a translucent sheen under the faint moonlight. Dark veins crawled up his narrow throat and across his bald, bulbous skull, pulsing with stolen life. The skin had drawn tight around Zurhas’ face, emphasising his pointed cheekbones, receding chin and prominent, angular nose. His eyes were dark and beady, with tiny pupils that reflected the light like polished coins. More than anything else, he reminded Ushoran of a pale, hairless rat. He even clasped his strange, unusually long-fingered hands to his chest in a curiously rodent-like manner.

“I didn’t want her,” the immortal told him. “I told her to be quiet, to go away, but she wouldn’t listen. She screamed and screamed, so I had to quiet her.” Zurhas unfolded his hands and gestured towards the dead woman. Drops of cooling blood dripped from dark, curved claws. “You may have her, if you wish.”

Ushoran stared at Zurhas. There was no mistaking the gleam of madness in the immortal’s rodent-like eyes. Not for the first time, he debated the wisdom of his plan. But time was running out. Neferata’s patience was very nearly at an end. Something had to be done, and quickly, before it was too late.

“I have already fed,” the Lord of Masks replied. He managed a bland smile. “But the offer is appreciated.”

Zurhas shrugged and turned his attention back to the dead man at his feet. “This is the one I wanted,” he explained. “He cheated at dice. Not once, but many times.” He touched a claw to one long, slightly pointed ear. “Shaved dice make a very distinctive sound, I have learned. A shame I could not hear it when I was younger. How different my life might have been.” He leaned over the dead man and dipped two fingers into the gaping wound. Zurhas drew them out again and began licking the tips clean with delicate flicks of his bluish tongue. “Are you any good at dice, Lord Ushoran?”

Ushoran’s smooth brow showed the slightest hint of consternation. “I don’t much care for gambling.”

Zurhas rested his hands on his knees and stared up at the Lord of Masks. “And yet here you are,” he said. “Why else go to all the trouble to find me?”

Ushoran felt his hackles rise, purely as a matter of pride. “Trouble? Nothing could have been simpler—”

To his surprise, Zurhas let out a wheezing snort. “You have been searching for weeks,” the immortal said. “I have watched you creeping across the rooftops, wearing one guise or another.”

For a moment, Ushoran was too stunned to speak.

His mind reeled. If Zurhas had seen through his guises, what about Ankhat, or Neferata? “I… I had no idea you were so perceptive,” he managed to say.

“I don’t see why you should,” Zurhas replied. “None of you ever paid the least attention to me.” He showed his teeth in a ghastly, jagged smile. “I bet you couldn’t even tell me the last time I attended the queen’s court.”

Once again, the Lord of Masks bristled. “As I said, I don’t much care for gambling,” he answered stiffly.

Zurhas shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Honestly, neither did I,” he said. “But I wasn’t smart enough for the priesthood, nor brave enough to be a soldier, so what else was there to do?” The immortal chuckled grimly. “At least when I had coins to wager and a pair of dice in my hand, people paid attention to me.”

“You rode with the king’s bodyguard at the Battle of Mahrak,” Ushoran pointed out. “I remember that clearly.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed,” the immortal said. A small, bitter smile tugged at his bloody lips. “My father paid Lamashizzar a handsome bribe so I could join the king’s retinue. He reckoned it cheaper than paying for another year of gambling debts—and if I were to die on the battlefield and spare them future embarrassment, so much the better.”

Zurhas sighed. “There was no chance of that happening, of course. The dragon-staves saw to that. I watched the battle from behind a wall of iron-shod infantry, and watched the Usurper’s champions shot to bits from fifty yards away. The most I suffered were saddle sores and red eyes from the clouds of dragon powder.” He shook his head. “Afterwards, when the battle was done and everyone was looting the enemy’s siege camp, I had my one moment of glory. I found a chest full of gold coin hidden in one of the tents belonging to Nagash’s immortals. Everyone else had missed it, but I turned it up straightaway. You can’t hide gold from a gambler. My father knew that lesson well.”

The immortal spread his stained hands. “I saw a great deal of the king after that. Spent most evenings in his tent, drinking wine and pissing away my new-found wealth.” Zurhas let out a low hiss. “He was the worst cheat I’d ever seen, but then, he could afford to be. He was the king.”

Zurhas’ gaze fell to the gambler’s contorted body. He studied it in silence, as though seeing it for the first time.

“By the time we reached the Living City I hadn’t a coin to my name, but I was still one of Lamashizzar’s personal guests.” He sighed again. “I flattered myself that he and I had become friends. One night, he asked me for my help. Asked me, as though he and I were equals. Naturally, I agreed. And then the next thing I knew, we were following Arkhan the Black into the heart of Nagash’s pyramid. By then, of course, there was no turning back.” Zurhas glanced up at Ushoran, his deep-set eyes strangely haunted. “We carried Arkhan’s body and Nagash’s tomes back to camp in the dead of night. The whole way, I wondered when Lamashizzar would turn his dragon-stave on me. But he never did.”

Ushoran tried to sound sympathetic. “Whatever else, he was still your cousin.” And some menial tasks were too delicate to trust to slaves, the Lord of Masks thought.

“I should have refused him,” Zurhas said. “When we returned to Lahmia, I should have told the king I wanted no part of his schemes.” He scowled. “But what would that have got me? A knife in the back, or poison in my cup, most likely. As long as I kept playing the game, there was the chance my luck would turn. The king would need me for some important task, and I would become someone of value—someone like you, or Lord Ankhat.”

“Is that what you want, Zurhas?” Ushoran asked. “To be someone of import? A person of power and influence?”

“No chance of that now,” Zurhas replied. “Neferata saw to that.”

The Lord of Masks smiled grimly. “What if I were to tell you that the queen’s luck had finally turned?”

Zurhas gave Ushoran a sidelong look. “What do you mean?”

“Is it not obvious?” Ushoran spread his hands. “The signs are all around us. Look how the city has suffered, ever since she became obsessed with that fool Alcadizzar. She thinks of no one but herself now and Lahmia has been pushed to the edge of revolt. The time is ripe for change.”

The immortal stared up at Ushoran, his beady eyes bright with fear. “You cannot challenge her,” he said. “None of us can. She is too powerful.”

Ushoran smiled. “Perhaps. But what if we had help?”

Zurhas frowned. “I don’t understand. What kind of help?”

“An alliance,” Ushoran said. “With the one being on earth powerful enough to tip the scales against Neferata—the Undying King.”

“Nagash?” Zurhas recoiled from Ushoran, eyes widening in fear. “You don’t know what you’re saying!”

“He lives, Zurhas! How I do not know, but ever since the Battle of Mahrak he has been biding his time in the wastelands, gathering his strength!” Ushoran pointed to the north. “You felt his presence during the night of the Green Witch, the same as the rest of us. Do you deny it?”

Zurhas reluctantly shook his head. “No,” he replied.

“For ten years, I have had agents searching the wastes for Nagash’s fortress,” Ushoran said. “The cost was enormous, but in the end, I found it.” He took a step towards Zurhas, his voice lowering almost to a whisper. “He is very near, Zurhas. Just a few weeks’ ride north along the coast. And he is preparing for his return to Nehekhara. My agents have seen the smoke from his forges. Soon, very soon, his armies will march once more.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Zurhas protested. “Lahmia was neutral during the war.”

“Up until the moment we betrayed Nagash, you mean,” Ushoran shot back. “Do you imagine he has forgotten? No, Lahmia will be the first city to feel Nagash’s wrath—unless we reach an accommodation with him first.”

“What kind of accommodation?”

Ushoran smiled. “Simply this. If he helps us depose Neferata and seize control of the city, then Lahmia will ally with him in his campaign against the rest of Nehekhara.”

Zurhas frowned, clasping his hands together against his chest. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “What about Ankhat? He is loyal to the queen.”

“Ankhat is loyal to whoever holds the crown,” Ushoran replied. “If Neferata falls, then he will change sides quickly—or else he will suffer the same fate. With Nagash behind us, he won’t stand a chance. Think on that! There would be no more need for secrets, no more skulking about in the shadows. We would rule the city openly, and the people would worship us as gods!”

Zurhas stared at Ushoran for a moment, his expression growing ever more suspicious. “Why tell me any of this?” he asked.

“Because I can’t do this alone,” Ushoran said. “Someone must go to the Undying King and negotiate the alliance. I cannot go, because Neferata requires my presence at the temple every night. You, on the other hand, could leave the city for weeks at a time, and not raise anyone’s suspicions.”

On impulse, he reached out and gripped the immortal’s arm. The flesh beneath the grimy robe was hard and cold as marble. “Don’t you see? This is the moment you have been waiting for, Zurhas. Your luck has finally turned. Now the future of the entire city rests in your hands.”

Zurhas’ gaze fell to his bloodstained palms. After a moment he gave a faint smile. “We would share the throne?” he asked.

The Lord of Masks smiled. “We would discuss matters of state and make important decisions jointly, but the crown would be yours alone. I don’t care for that kind of attention.”

Zurhas nodded. Then his smile turned wicked. “You’re taking a great risk,” he said. “What is to stop me from making my own deal with Nagash and taking everything for myself?”

Because you haven’t the wit or the nerve, Ushoran thought. Why do you think I picked you in the first place? He affected a nervous grin, and tried to cover it up with a shrug.

“The advantage is yours. But I make a far better friend than an enemy,” Ushoran replied.

Zurhas laughed—a ghastly, barking sound, like the cry of a jackal—and slapped Ushoran on the shoulder. “You’re right, of course,” he said, but the wicked gleam never left his beady eyes. “I just wanted to make certain we understood one another.”

“Of course,” Ushoran said. He had already begun laying plans for Zurhas’ demise, just as soon as the deal with Nagash had been finalised.

“When do I leave?” Zurhas asked.

“As soon as we can manage,” Ushoran replied. Time was growing short. He could sense that Neferata’s patience was nearly exhausted. If something didn’t happen soon, he would be the one hanging from the torture rack in the queen’s audience chamber. “I must draft documents for you to present to Nagash, detailing the terms of the alliance. I will provide you with a number of trusted agents to serve as your retainers, along with falsified letters of transit that will allow you to leave the city.”

“If Nagash’s fortress lies to the north, why not travel by boat up through the straits?”

Ushoran shook his head. “Too conspicuous. Lord Ankhat has agents of his own, and they watch the docks closely. Better to travel overland, with as small a group as possible. Your retainers have been well trained; they will find you suitable shelter by dawn and guard you during the heat of the day.” He gestured at Zurhas’ tattered clothing. “We will also need to find you garments suitable for a royal envoy.”

“Of course,” Zurhas said. His smile widened, revealing a mouthful of jagged, discoloured teeth. “We wouldn’t want to give a bad impression.”

The immortal threw back his head and cackled at the sky. Ushoran smiled, masking his contempt. He had to work with the tools at hand, he reminded himself. Once the alliance was sealed and Neferata dealt with, there would be ample time to dispose of Zurhas.

The dice had been loaded from the start, and the fool hadn’t suspected a thing.

 

The hooting of an owl echoed from the woodland to the south-west of the bandit camp. Alcadizzar was awake at once, casting aside his heavy cloak and rising silently to his feet. Around him, the dozen tribesmen who’d stood the daytime watch slept on, heads resting upon their saddles and hands gripping the hilts of their swords.

Their camp was ten yards inside the tangled forest that stretched along the foot of the mountains north of Lahmia’s cramped necropolis. Faisr and the rest of the night watch crouched under the shadows just inside the tree line, peering warily across the rough ground that stretched in a crescent almost half a mile south and west in the direction of the city’s western trade road. The Crystal Sea was a cobalt-blue line stretching along the horizon to the east. Lahmia’s central hill, ringed with white manors and the towers of the royal palace, rose just above the line of broken ridges to the south. A mounted party heading north from the city would be hidden from view as they passed through these foothills. Faisr and the rest of the bani-al-Hashim agreed that it made an ideal spot for an ambush.

The twin-tailed comet blazed in the sky above the distant city, bathing the ridgeline and the rocky ground with pale blue light. His Lybaran tutors had spoken of such sights and had voiced many theories as to their purpose in the cosmos. Some believed that they were fragments of broken stars, careening across the heavens. Others insisted that they were portents of occult knowledge; arcane riddles posed by Tahoth, the god of knowledge. Whatever the truth about their origins, the celestial philosophers all agreed that they were harbingers of conflict. Fire and tumult followed in their wake.

This was the pennon Ophiria had warned him about, all those years ago. He’d known it from the first night that Faisr had pointed it out to him, weeks before. Alcadizzar had asked the chieftain for a dozen tribesmen and had ridden off before first light, racing eastwards as fast as his horse could carry him. Two weeks later, Faisr had joined him with another dozen warriors, and they had been waiting ever since—for what, Alcadizzar could not say.

Not a single human soul had passed through the foothills since Alcadizzar’s arrival. The area was desolate and foreboding, home to packs of jackals that stole into the city’s necropolis each night to forage for scraps. The tribesmen had found evidence of hunting trails through the woods when they’d first arrived, but the paths were overgrown and hadn’t been used in many years.

The cry of the night owl echoed from the woods again, low and insistent. Faisr listened closely as Alcadizzar settled down on his haunches close by. “Riders approaching, moving fast,” the white-haired chieftain said. He gave Alcadizzar an appraising look. “Is this what you’ve been waiting for?”

“It is,” Alcadizzar replied. “It must be.” He leaned over and tapped one of the tribesmen on the shoulder. “Yusuf, go and wake the others.”

The warrior nodded silently and vanished back into the trees. The rest of the night watch went to work stringing their powerful horn bows. Faisr loosened his sword in its scabbard and made quick adjustments to his raider’s robe, but his eyes never left Alcadizzar. “Ubaid, you know I trust you above all others,” he said. “When you asked for a dozen of my best men, I gave them to you without question. When you said you were bringing them here, of all places, I did not so much as bat an eyelash. But perhaps now you could explain to me just what in the frozen hells is going on?”

Alcadizzar’s stomach fell. He’d known this was coming, sooner or later. How could he possibly explain more than eighty years of deception? What would Faisr do when he realised he’d been lied to all along?

He sighed. “All will be made clear, chief. Once the arrows have flown and the riders are dealt with, I’ll explain everything. You have my word on it.”

Faisr narrowed his eyes, but gave a reluctant nod. “After, then.”

The rest of the raiding party came up from camp and settled quickly into position. Black-fletched arrows were driven into the sandy soil next to each crouching archer. A horse whickered softly a few yards behind them; Alcadizzar turned to see half a dozen men mounted and ready, just in case any of the riders escaped the initial ambush. The desert warriors were all chosen men, each one a veteran of countless raids. They knew their trade as well or better than Alcadizzar himself. All he could do was ready his blade and wait as the sound of hoof-beats echoed across the broken ground from the south.

Sound travelled strangely along the foothills. The thunder of hooves reverberated through the night air for many minutes before the first riders came suddenly into view, rising out of a patch of dead ground a hundred yards to the south-east. Alcadizzar counted six men, all clad in dark robes and dun-coloured headscarves, riding hard towards the north-west. They were travelling in a tight group, paying no mind to the dark woods or the concealing terrain surrounding them. They were trading caution for speed, clearly thinking that there was nothing to fear this far from the city. Alcadizzar glanced at Faisr and bowed his head respectfully. The honour of springing the ambush belonged to the chieftain.

Faisr accepted the honour with a nod and a predatory grin. He gauged the riders’ approach and raised his hand. Bowstrings creaked as the archers chose their marks. The riders made easy targets, silhouetted by the light of moon and comet as they drew closer to the tree line.

Forty yards. Thirty. Twenty. At just under twenty yards the riders started to draw away again as they altered course to skirt the dense forest. Alcadizzar clenched his fist.

“Loose!” Faisr hissed.

Sixteen bowstrings snapped and sang. Heavy, broad-headed arrows flickered through the air, almost too fast for the eye to follow. At such close range, every shaft found its mark. Horses screamed and thrashed, hurling men from the saddle as they crashed to the ground. One rider struggled to his feet, cursing furiously, his left arm hanging limp; a pair of arrows struck him in the chest, pitching him onto his face. A second man dragged himself free from his dead horse and tried to flee, heading south towards the distant necropolis. A single tribesman rose to his feet, arrow drawn back to his chin. He tracked the fleeing man for a moment, the razor-edged arrowhead drifting fractionally skywards. The bowstring thrummed, and a second later the running man seemed to twist in mid-air, clawing at the shaft which had sprouted between his shoulderblades. He staggered, gave a strangled cry, and then collapsed.

Faisr waited for a dozen heartbeats, scanning the ambush site for movement. Satisfied, he waved his tribesmen forwards. A dozen men put aside their bows and rushed forwards, steel in hand. They began to move among the fallen bodies, despatching wounded men and horses with swift, efficient blows.

Alcadizzar let out a long, silent breath. The ambush had gone much better than expected. Hopefully, his instincts were correct and he hadn’t just cut down half a dozen innocent men. “We will have to search them all,” he said to Faisr. “Any detail, however small, could be significant.”

Faisr folded his arms and scowled. “Significant to whom? Who are these people?”

The moment had come. Alcadizzar could delay no longer. But before he could speak, the stillness of the night was shattered with a savage, inhuman howl.

Out on the killing ground, the desert warriors had made their way into the midst of the stricken riders. Alcadizzar turned just in time to see a gaunt figure rear up from beneath a fallen horse, flinging the dead animal into the air as though it were a child’s toy and scattering the three tribesmen who had closed in around it. The bluish glow of the comet shone from the figure’s chalky skin, lending its long, clawed hands and hairless skull a strange, ghostly radiance. It snarled like a maddened beast, jaw gaping hungrily, and Alcadizzar felt a chill race down his spine.

The tribesmen reeled in shock at the sight of the creature—all that is, except for Faisr al-Hashim. The sound of his sword rasping from its scabbard shook the tribesmen from their stupor. “Slay it!” the chieftain cried. “In the name of the Hungry God, strike the creature down!”

The bani-al-Hashim surged forwards at Faisr’s command, shouting war cries and brandishing their swords. They rushed at the monster from all sides. Blades flashed, slashing at its neck and chest, but the creature wove like a viper between the blows, dodging them with hideous ease. Pale hands lashed out with unnatural speed; where they struck, armour ruptured, bone shattered and organs burst. Men crumpled, coughing blood, or their broken bodies were flung backwards like chaff in a rising wind.

Six men died in the blink of an eye. The surviving tribesmen faltered, stunned by the ferocity of the creature. A bowstring sang, then another. The blood-spattered figure spun out of the path of the first arrow, but the second took it high in the right hip. It staggered for a moment, spitting curses, and then two more arrows punched into its shoulder and chest. A fourth shaft transfixed the creature’s throat, the broad arrowhead bursting from the back of its pale neck in a spray of thick ichor. The tribesmen let out a yell of triumph—but their hope was short-lived. With a gurgling growl, the monster seized the arrow with one clawed hand and ripped it free.

More arrows hissed through the air. Spitting ichor, the creature dodged first one, then another, but the next one punched through its left thigh. It snapped the shaft in two with a sweep of one hand and then suddenly turned and ran, heading south towards the city necropolis.

“A horse!” Alcadizzar cried. The monster was already well out of bowshot, racing over the broken ground faster than the swiftest mortal could manage. A tribesman dashed from the woods, leading Alcadizzar’s horse by the reins; with a loud cry, he leapt into the saddle and dashed off after the monster at a furious gallop.

He couldn’t let the thing reach the necropolis. Once it got in among the close-set mausoleums, there would be no way to find it. Alcadizzar spurred his mount onwards, riding hard over the broken ground.

At first, the distance shrank quickly, until the pale-skinned creature was little more than a dozen yards away. But the ridgeline was coming up fast and the horse was struggling to clear the rough terrain. No matter how he tried, Alcadizzar could not close the gap any further.

And then, with a wild laugh, Faisr came racing past him, his lean desert horse gliding like a ghost over the rocks. The chieftain held a short, barbed javelin in his upraised hand; as the creature started to ascend the ridge just ahead, Faisr charged to within a dozen paces of the thing and let fly. The missile sped like a thunderbolt and struck the monster in the back, just below the left shoulderblade. It let out a despairing wail and fell forwards, sliding face-first back down the steep slope.

Faisr was already standing over the creature’s body when Alcadizzar reined in at the base of the ridge. He leapt from the saddle, sword ready, but it was clear that the monster was finished; the chieftain’s javelin had taken it through the heart. Faisr glanced up and smiled ruefully as Alcadizzar approached.

“I despair of ever making a proper horseman out of you, Ubaid,” he said. Gripping the shaft of the javelin, he used it as a lever to roll the creature onto its side. “What in the name of the Hungry God is this thing?”

Alcadizzar approached the monster warily, his mind drifting back to that blood-soaked night in Neferata’s bedchamber. “A servant of Neferata,” he said. “A man, transformed by black arts into a blood-drinking beast.”

The prince raised his sword. The heavy blade flashed down, severing the fiend’s head with a single stroke. Surprisingly, the creature’s body spasmed beneath the blow, as though some shred of vitality still lurked in its limbs. It trembled spastically for a moment and then finally went still.

Summoning up his courage, Alcadizzar bent and retrieved the monster’s severed head. Here was the proof he’d been seeking for almost a century. At long last, the fate of Lahmia’s secret rulers was sealed.

Faisr studied Alcadizzar’s grisly trophy. “It’s done,” he said. “The arrows have flown; six of our brothers lie dead upon the sand. Now you owe me an explanation.”

The prince stared up at the starry sky. The twin-tailed comet seemed to ripple just overhead, like a battle-pennon. Alcadizzar offered up a silent thanks to Ophiria, then drew a deep breath and met the chieftain’s eye.

“The first thing you must know,” he said, “is that my name is not Ubaid.”