Book 1: A Law Unto Her Own - Chap. 16-21

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RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

The legions of Nagash had coerced more from Nehekhara’s numerous necropolises than just the ancient bones of the dead. A tide of tomb scarabs erupted from the sandy earth, their black, shiny shells clicking horribly as the ravenous creatures took to the skies. Those that could not fly, the scorpions, termites, spiders and other, more twisted and shapeless creatures, slipped smoothly from the sands, washing like a chitinous tide toward the Nehekharan army. The air filled with the dry click of their husks.

“Justice…” said Maatmeses, and a shiver wracked her spine. This was the day she had been waiting for. For half a century, she had lived with the guilt of Lahmia’s ruin. She had endured the nightmares. The pain. For all her godly strength, her iron will, she had been powerless to defend her city from the depredations of the Nehekharans.

For her impotence, Lahmia had burned, and a part of her had burned with it - that conflagration had never left her, not after all these decades. It smouldered away inside of her, her memories and nightmares as kindling, and so the flames of her vengeance had grown, into the monstrous, righteous incarnation that even now raged within her.

More insects scuttled forth from the crumbling earth and dry grasses, a flood of chittering black lustre, but Maatmeses kept them at bay from her children and she. Mindless and primitive, and plentiful as the desert sands themselves, they were the perfect vassals for the indomitable will of the Dread Lords. Flesh would be stripped, muscle devoured, skin bitten, and the Nehekharans would know something of her suffering.

It was fair. It was just. It was satisfying!

Head thrown back, throat distended, the ancient vampire opened up her mind to the desert around her. Almost instantly she felt them: the stabs of pain, flickers of fear, prickling her mind like a thousand hot needles. The mortals were despondent. Ancient terrors, primaeval as the sands themselves, crawled over the warriors of Nehekhara, spreading panic and discord with every click of their mandibles. Maatmeses laughed, a scornful sound, and her voice carried far into the rustling wings above.

“They crawled over Lahmia like an army of termites, biting, stinging, devouring everything in their paths. Now they shall feel that pain firsthand!” The vampires nodded, appreciating the truth of Maatmeses’ words in a way no other could. They needed their vengeance, needed it like the blood they craved so much. It was their duty to claim it! Beside Maatmeses, Issa hissed.

“They killed Eshe…killed Eshe…For every drop of her precious blood, I claim it back ten-fold. Ten-fold! Ten-fold!”

“Yes, my son. It is yours by right! Not just Eshe, but Gehb too, and Khait, and my other sons and daughters, brutally murdered by the Nehekharans!” Three guttural sobs burst from her throat, bubbling quickly into renewed laughter, and her head flew back again. Neck swollen, like that of a python’s, she proclaimed her verdict to the heavens: “Drain the injustice from their veins. Drain it all!” A bestial snarl tore from Issa’s throat, and he scratched at his unprotected cheeks. Blood spoiled the sands.

“My scrolls. The wealth of Lahmia’s lore, gone up in smoke.” Odji’s eyes narrowed to slits, and he shifted beneath his armour at some small itch. “Decades of law-keeping, broken and undone by their wanton destruction. Mindless. Ignorant!”

“More than just your records, Odji.”

“Yes, I know…”

“The very streets, the very people we sought to protect, to guide, butchered and enslaved by the treacherous Nehekharans!” Ptoleme’s voice had lost none of its articulation, not after half a century of homelessness.

“My scrolls were everything to me…They gave me purpose, were the material embodiment of my work and my values. The mortals must be punished! Vengeance must be taken!”

“It shall be!” screamed Maatmeses, and her vehemence was such that the nearest insects withered and died, their cracked husks curling, crisp at the edges. “For Lahmia!”

“For Lahmia!” cried her four children, and with a dreadful lurch, their skeleton legion advanced.

Bones creaked and joints clicked, as the long-dead warriors of Nehekhara strode once more to battle. A thousand rusted helmets surged awkwardly forwards, and twice that many bony feet waded through the ravenous swarms of insects. All the while, her warriors grinned, that deathly, mirthless grin, a mockery of their own macabre duty.

In Nehekhara, the dead slew the living, and they could not appear to enjoy it more.

Bale-fires flickered in their hollow excuses for eyes, and strips of ancient armour hung from their bones. Maatmeses watched them march, and her grin became nothing short of crocodilian. The dead did not disobey. They dead did not question her authority, her values. They took her will as law, and carried out their duties faultlessly. Such obedience brought a deep-seated satisfaction to her heart. They were the perfect tools for her vengeance!

A bitter cold swept over the battlefield, and the five vampires looked expectantly up. They all recognised the dark swirls of magic as they rushed purposefully toward the distant figures of W’soran and his coven of priests, just as they all knew the havoc he could wreak through their manipulation. The dead would rise! Every warrior felled would stand again in service of the vampires, and terrible spells, the likes of which even Maatmeses had never mastered, would be unleashed upon the hapless mortals. Such was the malignant knowledge possessed by that most cunning and callous of vampires.

Justice was justice, whether by her hand, or that of her brethrens’. They would tear the mortals apart with their blades, and their spells, and they would drain their corpses dry, and each of the dead would be a slight in their favour. In Lahmia’s favour.

And when they all lay dead, or else marched in undeath beneath the banners of Nagash, then and only then would Lahmia be avenged. Her throat hoarse, Maatmeses screamed to the skies, and such was her vitriolic hatred that the very desert fled before her, a bitter storm of dust, sand and vengeance.
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

Screams. Shouts. Cries. The earth shifted, dry soil scattering, and with a tremendous heave, a gigantic beetle burst from the ground. Thick, black mandibles gnashed hungrily together, reminding Istnofret of a pair of curved khopesh, and a myriad of glittering eyes met her own. There was no cunning in that gaze. No sense. No understanding. Only hunger.

More insects scuttled around her, their keening cries piercing her ears, but none were so large or alien as the thing before her. She had never seen the like, not in all her blessed lifetime; such monstrosities dwelled in the deep, dark, forgotten tombs beneath the desert, far from Ptra’s searing light, and that was where they belonged. Not here, in plain sight of the very gods themselves.

Without a flicker of warning, the beetle attacked. A sibilant hiss washed over her as it swept close, its jaws slicing together, and at the last minute she dived aside, landing hard against the rough earth. All around her, the priests of Basth were embroiled against the ravaging plague. Locusts, flies, and the dreaded tomb scarabs descended upon them, a vision of hell itself, and were it not for her faith, she might have felt a stab of fear then. Emerald eyes flashed fierce, beautiful, in her face.

Basth would not abandon her. Basth would not abandon them.

It charged again, hissing, screeching, a bulky mass of slick chitin and serrated teeth, but this time Istnofret was prepared. She rolled from its vicious assault, wiry feet thudding down where only seconds before she had lain, and sprang nimbly to her own. Then she struck. The Claws of Basth sank smoothly into what she recognised as the creature’s face, and a horrifying scream rewarded her efforts. Its soft, gelatinous eyes were no match for Basth’s savage wrath; the stagnant blood that ran like water from its wounds proved as much. The monster shuffled back.

To her left, a priest crumpled and fell, a fountain of small, black flesh-borers erupting from his mouth. Of all the scarabs, they were the most feared. His acolytes backed away, tripping over their own robes in their haste to escape the black river of scuttling death. Expression grim, Istnofret turned from the scene of carnage. The plague was unnatural. Blasphemous. It went against every natural order of the desert, and it would be stopped, before more lives were lost. If any had the power to dispel the chittering horrors, it was she. Lips parted, hands upraised, the high priestess of Basth began her incantation.

“Oh blessed Basth, she who is most graceful, most beautiful and most savage of all the gods and goddesses, hear my plea! Most blessed, most benevolent and gracious of the divine ones, we invoke you!” She spoke calmly, confidently, and as her words rang true, the sands cleared from around her. Spiders scurried away, locusts took to the skies, and fanged worms bore hurriedly back into the earth, until an island of calm had formed around the high priestess. A glorious light entered her eyes, rich and golden as the rarest honeys.

“Oh blessed Basth, she who is most graceful, most beautiful and most savage of all the gods and goddesses, hear my plea!” she called again, and this time there were three voices that spoke.

“Most blessed, most benevolent and gracious of the divine ones, we invoke you!” The cat goddess would undo this madness. A divine guardian of Nehekhara, it was her role to avert the sickening blasphemies that the undead hordes represented. Their vile sorcery could not contend with the goddess’ hold over her people, and certainly not against the will of her most blessed priests. The fell plague would be undone, just as the shambling dead would be, and Nehekhara would know peace once more, in this life and the next!

As one her priesthood chanted aloud, their monotonous voices carrying far and low over the screams and shouts of the Nehekharan host, and slowly the earth became visible beneath their feet. Insects hurled themselves into the skies, whatever will that bound them in battle undone, and slowly, painstakingly, the air around the priests of Basth began to clear. Veins, long since dried and dusty, rose against her priests’ papyri flesh, and Istnofret watched as three of her disciples stumbled and fell under their goddess’ fickle toll. Nebankh himself knelt on the sandy earth, neck taut, eyes clenched as tightly as the hands that clutched at his staff, but still he chanted. The gods’ favour is never without a price. They knew this as well as they knew the incantation that spilled aloud from their desiccated tongues.

More chanting rose from the battle-line, and a radiant light tore into the hordes of spiders and beetles. Where Ptra’s brilliance touched them they withered and fell, their hides charred, and in minutes the infestation had become but grey smoke on the wind. The disciples of Geheb added their own stubborn incantation to the chorus of sonorous voices, the sands leaping wave-like over the scuttling creatures and dragging them back into the deep of the desert, where they belonged. As quickly as they had come, the terrible plague vanished, melted like a candle in the sun under the heat of Nehekhara’s divine righteousness.

There was no time for celebration. Commands bellowed over the amassed legions as captains regained order in their ranks. Istnofret watched through shining eyes as to her left, the Sun Cohort of Prince Imrathepis raced back into line. The warriors had escorted the host of Numas, herself included, across the rolling deserts, and they had reached the main body of Priest-King Alcadizzar’s host only yesterday. She could see the fabled prince of Numas himself from her vantage point, as he marched proudly across the front rank of his regiment, reminding them what it was that they fought for.

Istnofret understood the effort, but found it rather wasted, in light of the shambling hordes that clawed its way toward them. They came on even now, staggering across the wispy grasses of the Lush Plains, a tide of rotten flesh and sun-bleached bone, stretching on for as far as the eye could see. Haunting lights flickered in the putrid eyes of the revenant dead, and trapped in the shadow of the dense clouds, they shone all the more luminous and terrifying. It were as though all the Underworld looked out through those pale portals, reaching, grabbing, desperate to live, to be freed and to walk the deserts of their homeland once again. Such a thought reverberated within the sanctity of her own blessed heart, never mind those of the soldiers of the Sun Cohort.

And somewhere, out there…

“Maatmeses.”

She doubted very much that the Nehekharans needed any reminding of why it was they fought.
Cold air buffeted her lithe form, and Istnofret was thankful for the great robes that covered her flesh. Such chill was unheard of in the Kingdom of the Great River; another element of the enemy’s unnatural influence. It clawed at her soul and whistled through her bones, snatching at the very warmth of her body and stealing it away.

“Begin the Incantation of Jaded Healing,” she cried, and as one the priesthood of Basth joined their voices together. The undead must be vanquished. For Nehekhara’s sake, they must be returned to the tombs from whence they came, and their restless souls returned to Usirian. Their presence unsettled everything, and it did not bear thinking about what might become of their glorious kingdom, should their taint be allowed to persist. All that was good and well would be soured. All that was living would be dead. That much was a certainty.

A series of brisk shouts filled the air, and suddenly great boulders were soaring above her, massive chunks of barren rock inscribed with incantations of banishment and ruin. She could feel the potent enchantments, even as this distance, and relished the sensuous shiver of awe that tickled her. Great effort had gone into the transcribing of those missiles, hewn from the very bones of the mountains themselves.

Then the boulders were falling, and gigantic shards of rock exploded into the shuffling ranks of the risen dead, and madness descended once more over the battlefield.
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

Ancient eyes traced the path of the boulder as it careered through the skies. The rock grew larger with every passing second, descending from the heavens as though sent from the gods themselves to smite the vampires, and at the last second Maatmeses and her children sprang aside. The massive boulder tore into the earth, scattering soil and sand in all directions, eventually coming to a stop several metres on. The vampires leapt quickly to their feet, hisses slipping through their needle-teeth, and converged once more on their mother. A monstrous growl reverberated deep within her gullet, and ancient hands clutched tight about the pendant at her neck.

Long ago, when Lahmia’s city walls were not the broken rubble of the present, a great tribe of the pestilent green-skinned ones had swarmed down from the mountains to attack the city. Maatmeses had not witnessed the battle first-hand; her work had kept her confined to the fire-lit depths of the Catacombs, but even over the screams of the condemned and the weeping of the damned, she had heard the city’s great catapults as they unloaded their wrath into the green-skinned foes. The sounds were as thunder, shaking the very foundations of the desert, and each terrible crash was a source of contentment, of pride, within Maatmeses’ heart, for they stood for the methodical, undeniable destruction of Lahmia’s enemies. Lahmia, the jewel of the deserts. A jewel, sharpened and polished by her own two hands.

Only now, the towering catapults were wielded against her, and each crash was a stark reminder of the Nehekharans’ treacherous crimes. They had wronged Lahmia with their machines of war, and in doing so had wronged Maatmeses, and they would be made to pay. They would be made to pay!

“Ptoleme, trusted Ptoleme, first-borne of my sons.”

“Yes, High Justice. What are your commands?” He stepped up to her, clad from head to foot in his dull, bronze armour, and sporting a jewelled collar as of old. Lapis-lazuli, precious amethyst, and other, rarer gemstones sparkled majestically at his neck, shining against the faded metal of his breastplate. He was the picture of glory; resplendent of Lahmia itself, and Maatmeses felt a rush of pride.

“Take Odji, and claim our blood-debt down the left flank. Bleed their black hearts dry, and drink the corruption from their undeserving veins!” He bowed quickly, eyes flashing, his long, thin fangs at odds with the olive smoothness of his lips.

“It will be done. They shall be reprimanded for the atrocities of their past, and they shall know what it is to suffer, as we have!”

“Yes, suffer…” hissed Odji, from behind him. A brutal clamour reached the vampires’ ears, and all turned to watch as, at the centre of the battle-line, Vashanesh’s legions clashed with those of the living. Chariots ploughed through the stumbling ranks of the dead, their rotting bodies defenceless against the wicked scythes and cruel khopesh of the Khemrians. Horses screamed, the dead groaned, and overhead, thunder rumbled angrily through the clouds.

It had begun.

“Nebtawi, finest of Lahmia’s city guard. Lead Issa into battle down our right flank.”

“Yes, Maatmeses.” The ancient man drew his heavy khopesh from its straps on his back, and, clasping Issa by the shoulder, strode purposefully away. His blade hungered for the blood of the condemned, and it would not be disappointed.

Maatmeses turned to watch as another two boulders tore through her ranks, bones splintering beneath them, and a
snarl rent her features apart. The screams. The clash of blade on blade. The metallic tang of blood. She looked to her skeleton warriors, with their mouldering bones, their strips of haggard armour, and saw instead the soldiers of Lahmia, olive-skinned men, of muscle, blood, and courage. These men had fought to protect her city, to defend it from the cursed Nehekharans, and for their loyalty, they had paid the highest price.

Back straight, armour gleaming, Maatmeses stalked resolutely forward. Had her heart still beat, it would have hammered hard against the confines of her chest - she would avenge the Lahmians’ deaths, and claim her own vengeance for the destruction of her once fair city. Vengeance was absolute. The Nehekharans’ lives were hers, by right, and none would deny her them!
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

Just a name I liked the sound of :) Thought it sounded appropriate for the character. Anyway, here's more...

*

Hefting Ammon’s khopesh, Talamanke brought the blessed weapon arcing round. Its bite was as acid to the undeads’ flesh, searing through stagnant skin and bone with sickening ease. Emaciated claws reached out for him over the chassis of his chariot, raking ineffectually at the bronze and leather of his armour, and he lashed quickly out, shearing their limbs from their bodies. The stench of cold, dead blood flooded his nose.

Screams stabbed the air, but Talamanke did not fear them. They inspired a strength in him, one borne of his hatred for the unclean creatures that fumbled hungrily for his throat. Men, good men, died around him, nameless faces, but each somebody’s Ammon in their own right. Fathers, brothers, comrades and lovers, all succumbed to death’s wretched claim.

The unlucky ones were denied even that right, their limbs jerking spasmodically in the desert sands as they rose again, slaves to the grotesque incantations of their enemy. He saw it all around him, saw the flicker in their eyes as their lives were extinguished, to be replaced moments later by the liquid balefires of undeath. It was sickening.

Two more of the revenant dead surged toward him, their jaws chattering in an obscene parody of divine prayer. Both were fresh, sweat still gleaming from their ebony flesh. He felled them with twin strokes, the curved khopesh scything through their chests. It glowed with Ptra’s brilliance as it came into contact with the deceased creatures, a glorious flash of light and hope that rose and fell through the groaning ranks of the accursed ones. The sun god’s priests had woven the most potent of enchantments over the metal, and it did not fail him in its purpose.

Screams pierced his mind, as the staggering creatures claimed more Nehekharan souls, the sounds rising erratically over the constant, monotonous chanting of the priests. Flashes of light, fierce and radiant as the sun itself, illuminated the gloomy battlefield, and Talamanke knew instinctively that Ptra’s priests at least were invoking the magnificent power of their mighty god against the shambling hordes. Each flash brought more than light; images flickered through his mind, the walls of ancient Numas, of racing chariots, corpses rising from the sands, and Ammon.

Ammon, mindless and ruined at the hands of that twice-cursed blood-drinker.

Anger exploded, fiery and hot inside his chest, and he shouted an ancient curse as his blade descended once more. Cloying, black blood splattered his breastplate. He would find it, that dreaded beast of Lahmia, and he would kill it. Ualapt would make it so. The god had given him sign after sign that his prayers had been answered, and a pair of vultures had taken to constant vigil over Talamanke’s head. The mysterious god was watching him, and when the time came, would ensure his vengeance was carried out. Ammon would be avenged!

His chariot rolled deeper into the clawing horde of undead, soft, papyrus flesh tearing beneath its wheels. To the left of his regiment, he could make out Mahrak’s famous Jackal Squadron, the fierce warriors leaping savagely - fearlessly - into battle. Eight lunged forward, blades bursting through the brittle hollows of the walking deads’ chests, even as another rank stabbed past them, into the faces of the blasphemous enemy. Ancient prayers to Djaf filled the air; the dark jackal god had always favoured the Jackal Squadron above all others, and their wild temperaments reflected it.

Against such fiery passion, the cold dead could not hope to compete.

“For Nehekhara!” he screamed, and his voice carried far over the din of battle. The land itself was hot, and ancient, and the animated dead would melt into nothingness before their undeniable heat! His muscles flexed as he took the head of a once-living warrior from its shoulders. There was no guilt.

A shout to the right drew his attention, and Talamanke turned just in time to see another regiment of the walking dead crash into his chariots. Unlike those that even now reached out with bloodied nails, to tear desperately at his flesh, these were long-dead to the desert kingdoms. Every scrap of flesh and blood had long since turned to dust, leaving only bone behind, and at their forefront waved a golden banner, bearing the insignia of that most hated and cursed of kingdoms:

Lahmia.

Fearlessly, the skeleton warriors advanced, their ancient spears striking out at the Khemrians with a style not so dissimilar to that of Mahrak’s Jackal Squadron. They lacked the raw emotion of the living, but it was obvious when compared to the fresh, flailing corpses that assaulted him that these skeletons had been soldiers, once, long ago.

If their archaic battle skills were not evidence enough, the dying Khemrians that slumped from the backs of their chariots were.

“Right! Right!” he bellowed, lungs burning from a mixture of dust and sand. The crumbling bones of their enemy filled the air, a cloud of ancient decay that engulfed the battlefield. A dry cough wracked his throat, even as his chariot veered to the right, the thin whip of his driver spurring their maddened steeds into action.

Slowly, awkwardly against the tight press of leathery dead, his regiment turned to face the new threat head on.
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

Each slash of her khopesh was as a strike against Maatmeses’ grudge. The first tore into a spearman’s chest, hooking on his ribs and tearing him apart in a visceral spray of red. The second send a head flying from its shoulders, and the third clove a Khemrian clean it two, the ancient weapons scything through his stomach with the speed and strength of a crocodile’s jaws. A spear stabbed out, its point flashing toward Maatmeses’ face, but she easily avoided the clumsy blow, fire flashing in the vengeful vampire’s eyes.

Her retribution was sickening.

Screams filled her ears as men choked their last, and Maatmeses’ mouth twisted into a snarl. Their screams were owed her. They were owed her! Fresh blood splashed her face, and it was hot and rich with the guilt of her enemies. Every man here fought for Nehekhara, and it was Nehekhara that had broken her city’s gates, brought ruin to her court of law, and befouled everything that was precious and sacred about her home.

And the Lahmians… Those she had sought to uphold with her laws… Dragged in chains to the cities of the other kingdoms, as slaves. Slaves! A guttural growl tore from her lips.

It was not fair. It was not just!

The spearmen were all around her, their weapons stabbing, sticking, tearing, but with Maatmeses’ every pang of injustice they staggered back. Noses bled, and eyes swam with misty tears. They would know the pain that festered like a poison in Maatmeses’ heart. She would ensure it!

She shared with them the agony that had, for half a century now, twisted her gut and bled her heart, and the men around her screamed. They fell to the earth, battle forgotten, shaking and gasping as virulent nightmares beset them.

And Maatmeses did laugh at their suffering.

Those that feared death, she condemned to feel it a hundred times over, their minds clouded with visions of Usirian’s haunted Underworld. Those that feared water she drowned, their lungs burning as they rolled and thrashed under a tide of ethereal waves.

And those that feared the spiders, and scorpions, and other, darker burrowing creatures of the desert, she buried under a swarm of the ravenous things, and their priests’ incantations were powerless to disperse the nightmare-creatures that scuttled, imagined, over their flesh and into their throats. Into this ocean of turmoil waded Maatmeses, her blades flashing, tearing, rending, and the air was filled with the hot, red splash of justice. It was her blood-gift.

She was a law-keeper. It was her purpose to punish the criminal, the unjust, and she would fulfil her duty, no matter Lahmia’s ruination. She was High Justice still! High Justice!

The incantations. They percolated her head, ploughing monotonously, relentlessly, through her thoughts, even over the terrible din of battle, and it took a moment before Maatmeses realised why. Her brow darkened, and a feral turn marred her lips.

Istnofret.

She had been surrounded by priests, back in Numas. With a stark crack, Maatmeses slammed the butts of her khopesh against a Nehekharan’s skull. Istnofret! That treacherous bitch might even have counted amongst the priests’ numbers. Her cursed face had no so much as aged a day, from that which Maatmeses could remember.

Two more soldiers died by her vengeance, their stomachs opened, slick and shiny, onto the earth, as the vampire stalked purposefully through the host of spearmen. Istnofret would be found with the priests again. She was certain. A ravenous gleam entered her eyes, but it was not the ravenous gleam of other vampires; its tastes were not for blood, or death.

It hungered for vengeance
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

With a deathly sigh, the skeleton plunged its rusted blade into the neck of a horse. There was a hot spray that coated the grinning, fleshless, skull, and then the beast vanished, swept beneath a tide of bone, metal and wood. More skeletons marched forward, their feet treading slow but sure, rank after rank of the walking dead that surged toward the Nehekharans. They had but one thought in mind:

Murder.

Nebtawi and Issa marched at their fore, and the vampires wreaked a bloody toll on their enemies. The first moved with precision, decades of experience guiding his massive blade expertly in his grasp. Where he trod, the Nehekharans died.

“What has become of your soldiers?” he cried, the aged vampire lashing out with his khopesh. The two-handed weapon clove clean through a charioteer, sinking deep into the chassis of the chariot itself. With a grunt he wrenched it free, noticing for but a second as his enemy’s blood pooled into the newly-created groove. Every drop was owed him and his brothers. Owed the Maatmesin.

“Your blood is mine by right, and none can withstand me!”

To his right, Issa sprang from chariot to chariot. He pounced like a starving hound between the soldiers, no more in control of his actions than a rabid beast. Nebtawi knew what guided the vampire, and it was not hunger, or pleasure, or even grief. He was too far gone for such complex emotions.

The man hated. It was as simple as that. Even as Nebtawi watched, he clambered swiftly over a chariot’s chassis, fingers tearing into armour, flesh and bone with equal measure. An unholy light shone in his eyes, lurid and unsightly as the twin moons themselves, on a dark, cloudless night. It unnerved even him to see it.

Another chariot rolled toward him, and at the last minute Nebtawi span aside. Darting to the left, his khopesh struck out, shearing through equine limbs and creaking wood in the same deathly breath. The carnage that ensued, as the chariot flipped and crashed through his skeleton guard, was deeply satisfying.

“Can none contend with me? Can none in all of Nehekhara compete against my strength, my skill? I do not remember men so weak as this!” He would find them! It was easy to claim the lives of the weak. He had but to reach out with his ancient blade, and they fell, lifeless, before him. It was against the worthy that he tested his mettle! Only against the worthy did his vengeance feel truly complete. Overhead, the sunless skies filled with the cawing of carrion, as they descended bodily to gorge themselves on the ranks of the dead.

Issa vanished behind another chariot, but movement caught Nebtawi’s full attention. A banner shone out, taunting him, pulling strings of angst within his heart.

The Jackal Squadron of Mahrak. That hated legion, which decades ago had marched the streets of Lahmia, murdering and burning all in their path. That hated legion who had so furiously defied him and his forces in defence of their precious city, when the legions of Nagash had passed through Nehekhara. His stomach turned with a mixture of excitement and hatred.

They owed him much, and he would personally exact that toll .

Darting through the ranks of chariots, which swept like a tide against his skeletons, he honed in on their banner. Two steeds reared, terrified, before him, their hooves lashing out to strike at his face, but the vampire ducked smoothly beneath their flailing limbs. He gutted them and hurried on.

Another chariot swept into his path.

“Get out of my way!” he snarled, his voice a hiss, but the soldier struck out at him. The man’s blade shone with a fierce light.

Nebtawi’s khopesh flashed upward, blocking the fatal blow.

“Die, cursed blood-drinker!” cried the man, and the vampire recognised the searing hatred that burned in his adversary’s eyes. Something of respect flickered through his undead heart, before he span round, his mighty weapon smashing through the body of the chariot and into the man’s waist. He flopped in two from the back of his mount, dead before he hit the ground, and Nebtawi stalked around the ruined construct.

The warriors of the Jackal Squadron would feel the bite of his justice, before the battle was out.
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

Don't know what to say without repeating myself - this is riveting reading, and the only downside is I have to wait until you post again. If this was a book I wouldn't put it down until I was finished!
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

Ahhh should have posted this section at the end of the last post! Read the two together, if possible...

*

The creature moved with impossible grace. It struck out, its blade and blur, and before Talamanke could so much as move, the khopesh had plunged into his side.

Blackness engulfed his vision, and an impossible pain enveloped him. Ammon’s blade fell from his nerveless fingers, and without so much as a last thought, Talamanke died.

Even as his corpse tumbled to the sands, a pair of vultures descended from the skies onto him, ravenous for the same dark tastes as the very monster that had just slain him, and the battle still raging around them, the servants of Ualapt devoured their spoils.

*

A priest of Ptra… Obvious from the sun god’s shining emblem. Another of the same, and a third. All chanting and shouting, clinging desperately to the ancient power of the words that spilled from their sand-dry mouths. Maatmeses was revolted by such mindless faith, for it mirrored the Great Necromancer’s own hold over her will. A sharp chill raked at her heart.

The gods of Nehekhara could not be trusted. They harkened back to an age when the kingdoms were still young, and even the liche priests had not yet established their mystical mortuary rituals.

Maatmeses’ eyes glittered like obsidian shards in her face. There was power in the priests’ invocations, yes. That much was evident from the ruination the fiery light brought to her ranks. She grinned. It was a mirthless expression.

The gods’ strength had long waned. Against the rising of the Cult of Nagash, against the perpetual dark of the desert nights and the indomitable will of her vengeance, the gods had weakened. Soon, they would be forgotten relics of a dead kingdom. A kingdom damned by its own unlawful actions.

Her unforgiving gaze pierced the enemy ranks. More priests, all servants of Ptra. Istnofret had to be here somewhere. All of Nehekhara was amassed against them, and in the face of such enemies as she, they would cling to their priests for support. For belief. For strength against the abominations that the walking dead stood for. She had spent long enough in the Land of the Great River to know that the mortals perceived them as such.

Screams of anguish filled her ears, carrying through the dark sky to mingle with the caws of the carrion, and the clash of blade on blade. Through the chorus of battle Maatmeses strode, closer and closer to the congregation of priestly disciples. At her back strode the Nehekharans’ ‘abominations,’ endless ranks of gleaming skeletons. Her weathered face tightened, like a leathery mask.

It was the living who were the abominations. It was they who had defied all sense of justice, all lawful conduct, when they had besieged Lahmia! They who had ruined everything she had ever known, ever worked for, ever strived to achieve. Her life had been dedicated to law, and justice, and punishments, and in one fell swoop, the Nehekharans had descended like a ravaging plague on Lahmia, and devoured everything. Everything!

They were the abominations, not she! Abominations, abominations, and for that alone they were deserving of death!

“And I shall deliver it! Justice must be had!”

A figure caught her eye then, and Maatmeses froze. Skeletons marched passed her, their feet unfaltering, but still she did not move. She had only eyes for one person. One figure. One memory, stepped straight from her head into the dim light of the battlefield before her.

Istnofret.

Before Maatmeses could move, a shower of bone washed over her. Shards of skull and brittle rib pattered against her flesh, and a shadow, thicker and blacker than the surrounding gloom, swept over her.
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

Sorry I havn't commented lately but I havn't been about much :P

I've caught up and must say I love all the new parts of this chapter!

Excellent as usual ^.^
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

The Ushabti’s blade smashed into her chest, cleaving deep into Maatmeses’ breastplate and knocking the vampire to the sands. The stench of blood filled the air, hot and salty on the Dread Lord’s tongue, and a cool breeze swept through her. The monstrous statue stepped closer. Its feet sank into the sands. Gems glittered dully at its breastplate, and Maatmeses hair fluttered slowly at the edge of her helmet.

She could not feel the bite of the animated statue’s weapon, but it smarted nonetheless. Istnofret was here. Maatmeses had found her, and none would get in the way of their business, especially not the animated plaything of some decrepit priest. Istnofret had far too much to account for. Snarling, the ancient vampire sprang to her feet.

The Ushabti struck again, its temple khopesh sweeping roundin a sideways arc. This time Maatmeses was ready, and at the last second she leapt back. The blade whisked inches passed her face.

Then she sprang forward, the once High Justice of Lahmia, her face twisted into a bestial mask of fangs, hate, and scales, and her own weapons came slicing forward. They smashed into the construct’s neck and, powered by her unholy strength, continued through to the other side, its jackal-like head toppling with a thud to the sands. The construct shivered, its limbs shaking against the arcane energies that rushed to their escape from its husk, then fell lifeless to the ground. Maatmeses stepped over the wreckage and toward her quarry.

She had no time for distractions. Istnofret would pay. She could see the woman clearly now. Skeletons marched periodically between her view as they strode forward into battle, but her ancient eyes remained unflinching. They fixed on Istnofret and did not so much as blink, lest the woman slip from her sight. A hundred memories welled up, dredged from the dark recesses of her mind, and each one undid a little of her sanity on its surfacing.

Two-dozen steps and she would be there. Her feet moved purposefully. The stench of blood and rot dissipated from her senses.

Fifteen steps. The sounds of battle faded away, replaced by the voices in her head, those long-imprisoned memories come crawling back.

Ten steps. There was only the clink of her armour now, and the feel of the straps against her flesh, to anchor her to the battle. Her skin was like marble, unfeeling.

Six. She blinked, once, a reptilian gesture that was all the more fearsome for appearing on her face. She licked her lips.

Two. Istnofret. Istnofret, that cursed woman of a life long since passed. It could not be her, and it was. Maatmeses shook, but it could not have been from excitement, for her dead veins did not enforce such physical manifestation of her emotions.

Hate toyed with her features, melding them into something horrific, something monstrous, barely recognisable as human. She drew one, unearthly lungful of battle-spoiled air, as Istnofret turned and saw her. Venom shone lurid in her eyes.

“Istnofret…It has been too long, my sister.”


*

The air was cool. The wind swept fierce, bearing the stench of death to every inch of the battlefield. Blood stained the sands, turning them a sticky red and matting the grasses to the earth.

It was in this swirling madness that the Jackal Squadron died.

Nebtawi struck with the strength of his vampiric kind, fought with the fierceness of the wronged Maatmesin, and struck out with the skill and finesse of the Lahmian city guard of old. He had practiced the style for decades, and knew it as intimately as the cleverest mathematician his sums, or the wisest physician his herbs.

Against this undead veteran, the skilled warriors of the Jackal Squadron were powerless. They leaped forward, khopesh flashing, spears stabbing, and always Nebtawi moved. He wove in and out of their blade-strikes as though they were children, and not seasoned warriors in their own right.

His speed was preternatural, and the mere mortals could not hope to compete with him.

In Mahrak, they had fought for their home. They had guarded the streets that their children had played in. They had fought to defend the temples that houses the sacred spirits of their ancient gods, and they had defended the palace of their most venerable and just of priest kings.

Here, now, on the Lush Plains, Nebtawi had every inch their iron resolve to triumph, and in his determination, he matched them for their only advantage.

“Die, blood-drin-” screamed a soldier, even as the aged vampire’s might khopesh ripped open his ribcage. The feeble bronze of their armour was of no protection against his ferocity. It was pitiful.

“Come! Test yourselves against me! You shame all Nehekhara with your pathetic efforts, and the gods themselves disown you for them!” Nebtawi snarled, and chuckled. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. This was it, the battle to end all battles. Once they had triumphed over Alcadizzar and the army of the Land of the Great River, all Nehekhara would be the vampires’, and their Dark Lord Nagash’s, and they would know a peace.

They could return to Lahmia, and he would resurrect the guard there, and defend the city for all eternity, and his life would know meaning once more. He hissed, and lashed out as two more warriors charged toward him. His terrible strength shattered bone and knocked them from their feet, to be put from their misery by the numberless skeletons that marched at his back.

In death, there was peace. He could not deny it, when confronted with the madness of the Nehekharan host. Theirs was a sweating army, a rabble of soft meat and fear and stinking terror. They screamed and cried and fell prey to their panic, even as his skeletons marched resolutely forward. They did not falter, or sweat with terror, or flee from the gleaming weapons of their enemies. They marched obediently forward, and they grinned in the faces of the living, for they knew the same truth he did.

It was only right that he put the mortals out of their abject misery, and introduced them to the sanctity of death, and the timelessness of servitude. With the bodies slain here today, he would raise a new guard of Lahmia, and they would be trained to his standards, and the city would never again fall to the depredations of the living.

Everything he had hoped for was coming to pass, he could feel it.

More screams sounded aloud, the crescendo of death attaining ever new heights, and Nebtawi laughed. His wrinkled throats shook with mirth at the death that unfolded around him. He could feel the lives of the living as they were extinguished by the blades of his and Issa’s skeletal regiment, and it was good. It was good.

Issa…He wondered for a moment where the manic blood-drinker had got to; the man was savage, and uncontrollable, he could well be deep in the enemy’s ranks by now. He was more than capable of looking after himself, but it would not do to leave him all the killing!

Another rank of Mahrak’s chosen raced toward him, cries to the great Jackal god leaping from their lips, and with a grim smile Nebtawi braced himself for combat to be joined once more.
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

*

A mass of screaming children ran toward the river, their small, olive bodies glistening from the heat of the midday sun. It was irrepressible, driving the children toward the wet cool of the water as a farmer his cattle to the plains. The scent of perfume hung thick on the air, a cloud of pungent spices that followed the group of children wherever they raced.

Of all the children of the nobles of Lahmia, these were amongst the richest.

“Catch me if you can!” cried one of the girls, before dashing into the shallows of the rushing river. The water was cold and refreshing against her skin. She waded deeper.

“Istnofret! Get out of the river! Mother says it isn’t safe!” The mob of jostling children ran further along the bank, chasing after some imaginary enemy of the great city, leaving one small girl behind. “She says beasts lurk in the river!”

“Well, I can’t see any, said Istnofret, who proceeded to scan her surroundings with such an intense look of mock-scrutiny that the second girl stomped her foot. A spray of sand spluttered into the shallows.

“Maybe you’re too scared, Maatmeses?” Istnofret began to giggle and turn in circles, splashing her feet and chanting aloud, “scared-scared-run-away-never-to-come-back-again!”

Suddenly Maatmeses was there, and upon her sister. Water churned. The girls shrieked, and together the two toppled headfirst into the river.

“Not-not scared!” spluttered Maatmeses, half choking mouthful of muddy water. It tasted horrible, but refreshed the dryness of her mouth. “Told you I wasn’t!”

“Maatmeses, now I’m soaking!” Face as dark as the oldest necropolis, Istnofret clambered unceremoniously to her feet. “My clothes will bake hard in this sun!”

“Shouldn’t have teased me then, serves you right. You got what you deserved!” cried her sister jubilantly, but Istnofret was already skipping out of the water.

“We’re not even ten yet, you don’t need to be so serious about everything. Look, a temple cat!” The beast stalked slowly into view, moving with the supple grace of a Nubian princess, and with just as much majesty. Istnofret raced toward the animal, who did not flee, but stood its ground, and allowed itself to be wrapped in her arms upon her arrival. A husky purr reverberated against her chest. “Look at it! Maatmeses look, its so beautiful.” She turned to her sister, who walked slowly through the knee-deep water toward the bank. She looked thoroughly unenthused by the temple cat.

“I’ve seen them before, when going to the temple with mother. She will probably take you too, when you’re older. There’s loads of them there, all different shapes and colours.” She paused. “Istnofret, what is the matter?” Her sister’s face had paled, and she stared wide-eyed at her sister. The cat hissed, a throaty, venomous sound, and leaped away across the sands. “Istnofret?”

The girl pointed. Maatmeses turned, following her outstretched finger back toward the river, and found herself face to face with a monster.

A deep, sonorous sound rippled slowly from its jaws. Maatmeses didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her legs were frozen still. Even when Istnofret’s terrified screams pierced the air, and the monster glided slowly closer, she could not move. To say the girl was entranced was an understatement.

The beast stared at her, and she stared back, totally encapsulated by its ancient yellow eyes. The creature was massive, a beast of muscle and scale and long, sharp tooth, but its eyes spoke volumes to her. They were honest eyes. Trusting eyes. Judgemental eyes. She dared a breath, and found the monster indifferent.

No, not monster. This was one of Sobki’s servants. She had heard mother talk about them before, the great guardians of the rivers. She felt…awed by it, but not afraid.

The beast came to a stop less than a foot away. Its massive snout rose from the water to inspect her. Judge her. Test her. She stared into its eyes, and it stared right back into her soul, and something in her changed.

Shouts broke her from her reverie. Screams, and thick, strong arms around her waist, lifting her up and away. She watched the beast as it slipped beneath the murky water’s surface and was gone again, the last of the its scales sinking from sight, and saw it again, and again, in her mind’s eye, for many days to come.
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

Cheers Voltaire, that means alot. I am glad people are enjoying this story, and that it is helping inspire you at least to keep writing.

Next part!

TPL

*

The woman looked just as she remembered. Same tawny hair, glittering green eyes, elegant poise and sculpted cheekbones. It was her attire that changed her. The last time Maatmeses had seen her, Istnofret had been in simple household robes. Luxurious and light, yes, but day-to-day wear nonetheless. The woman stood before her was dressed in the fashion of the priesthoods. Bangles clung to her arms, gloriously gold even in the dim light of the battlefield, and long white cloth hung from her arms and shoulders. At her shoulders rested a collar, every bit as magnificent as the one her own Ptoleme sported, and sacred hieroglyphs stained her flesh with swirls of black. She recognised the emblems as readily as any other denizen of Nehekhara would have: the insignia of the cat goddess Basth. When she spoke, it was as a voice from the past.

“Maatmeses. I barely recognise you to look at, and yet I know it is you.” Her words smarted. She had changed much from the mortal she had once been.

“And yet you look exactly the same as I last saw you, that morning before your trial. The deserts have been most kind to you, my treacherous snake of a sister.”

“Had I not fled, you would have sentenced me to death that day. Your own flesh and blood, Maatmeses. You were every inch the monster then that you are now.” The vampire hissed and spat, her eyes flashing yellow. Judging.

“You took him from me! You lured my Kheruef away from me, with your lust and your beauty. You took away the only thing I trusted in, the last thing I trusted in, besides my law-keeping. You made me what I am.”

All around the two, battle unfolded. Skeletons stepped forwards, rusted blades plunging into soft flesh, even as glittering spear points stabbed forward, removing skulls and shattering bones. The living fell, their lives guttered, and the dead rose up to battle once again. The smell of hot, fresh blood mingled with that of the walking dead, the pestilent tang of rot and rancid pus. Screams pierced the overcast skies, rising up over the low, steady chant of Nehekhara’s priestly guardians.

“You are a beast. An Abomination. Look at yourself, Maatmeses, you are a blood-drinker! How can you abide this? You speak of your laws, yet this goes against every natural law conceivable! The gods themselves abhor you, and your unholy existence. You are a blasphemy.” Istnofret shook her head as she spoke, betraying the shame that filled her voice. “I thought you dead long ago, entombed in ancient Lahmia, free of this madness, this terrible plague that afflicts the land…and now I learn you are part of it.”

“The living are the plague. They have no morals, no considerations. They came to Lahmia with their spears and their chariots and tore out city down - our city, Istnofret - they burned everything that I ever knew to ashes and dust. There was no justice in their actions. No honour. No reason, and for this they injustice they must be repaid!”

“The nobles of Lahmia murdered and gorged themselves on the innocent, so that they might live on in undeath! This is not right, can’t you see that?” Maatmeses did not laugh. She could not. Instead, her lips twisted into a grim smile, like the slippery maw of some terrible serpent.

“The innocent…Few are the truly innocent, my sister. It is something I have come to learn, through my long years as High Justice. Even a sister can turn on her own, and for something so trivial as mindless lust!”

“I loved him!” screamed Istnofret, and suddenly the two were upon each other. The High Priestess struck out, her dagger-like claws flashing toward Maatmeses with divine speed and burying themselves into her gut. The vampire growled, a deep, earthy sound, and span her sister around, throwing the woman to the sands. Istnofret landed with the grace of her namesake, and sprang back up.

“You are not the only one of us to have changed, Maatmeses. I have been blessed by Basth, charged with the defence of her temples. I am her favoured servant, and her love wards me from ungodly evils such as you have become!”

In response, the vampire flashed forward. Khopesh in hands, she lashed out with them, tearing through the air as fast as arrows and scything toward Istnofret’s face. They missed by an inch, but she struck again, and again.

“Justice will be had! It will be had!”

Istnofret cried out and sprang back. Blood ran quick down her arm, three thin rivulets of crimson that met at her underarm and dripped with a splash to the sands. Maatmeses grinned, an expression that died when, seconds later, her sister’s eyes flashed green, and the wound sealed effortlessly back together. Istnofret hissed and leaped forward into combat again.

The woman moved with the grace of the cat goddess herself. Her feet barely touched the sandy earth as she moved, a breath of desert air. She stepped closer to Maatmeses, twisting into a pirouette with a lithe flick of her left leg, then springing up and over the vampire with a kick from her right. Arms flashed down and the vampire screamed. The Claws of Basth slipped in and out of her shoulder with the speed and sting of scorpion’s tail, but the wound did not draw blood, and the scream was one of frustration more than anything else. Maatmeses span on her heel and hurled a khopesh wildly, poison spitting from her throat - a glistening globule of blood, saliva and contempt.

“Die Istnofret, die! You are no sister of mine!” Her chest rose and fell. The red-mist filled her eyes, a seething cloud of bloodlust, vengeance and hate. She was a creature of madness, unfettered by the shouts and scents of battle. Her head thrashed and she growled, that guttural, crocodilian sound that was becoming so frequent a habit.

Only once her vision cleared, and Maatmeses looked up, did she see for the first time the prone form of Istnofret.

The woman lay spread-eagled on the sands, her limbs askew where she had fallen. The glittering emerald had faded from her eyes, and Maatmeses’ khopesh jutted from her throat, a beacon of gold and retribution to the wronged vampire’s eyes. Blood pooled from the wound, a rich, red river that seeped from the corpse into the sands.

“Justice…” she breathed, and her voice rattled with relief of centuries.
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

Chapter 20: Justice
IC -1152


Each slash of her khopesh was as a strike against Maatmeses’ grudge. The first tore into a spearman’s chest, hooking on his ribs and tearing him apart in a visceral spray of red. The second send a head flying from its shoulders, and the third clove a Khemrian clean it two, the ancient weapons scything through his stomach with the speed and strength of a crocodile’s jaws. A spear stabbed out, its point flashing toward Maatmeses’ face, but she easily avoided the clumsy blow, fire flashing in the vengeful vampire’s eyes.

Her retribution was sickening.

Screams filled her ears as men choked their last, and Maatmeses’ mouth twisted into a snarl. Their screams were owed her. They were owed her! Fresh blood splashed her face, and it was hot and rich with the guilt of her enemies. Every man here fought for Nehekhara, and it was Nehekhara that had broken her city’s gates, brought ruin to her court of law, and befouled everything that was precious and sacred about her home.

And the Lahmians… Those she had sought to uphold with her laws… Dragged in chains to the cities of the other kingdoms, as slaves. Slaves! A guttural growl tore from her lips.

It was not fair. It was not just!

The spearmen were all around her, their weapons stabbing, sticking, tearing, but with Maatmeses’ every pang of injustice they staggered back. Noses bled, and eyes swam with misty tears. They would know the pain that festered like a poison in Maatmeses’ heart. She would ensure it!

She shared with them the agony that had, for half a century now, twisted her gut and bled her heart, and the men around her screamed. They fell to the earth, battle forgotten, shaking and gasping as virulent nightmares beset them.

And Maatmeses did laugh at their suffering.

Those that feared death, she condemned to feel it a hundred times over, their minds clouded with visions of Usirian’s haunted Underworld. Those that feared water she drowned, their lungs burning as they rolled and thrashed under a tide of ethereal waves.

And those that feared the spiders, and scorpions, and other, darker burrowing creatures of the desert, she buried under a swarm of the ravenous things, and their priests’ incantations were powerless to disperse the nightmare-creatures that scuttled, imagined, over their flesh and into their throats. Into this ocean of turmoil waded Maatmeses, her blades flashing, tearing, rending, and the air was filled with the hot, red splash of justice. It was her blood-gift.

She was a law-keeper. It was her purpose to punish the criminal, the unjust, and she would fulfill her duty, no matter Lahmia’s ruination. She was High Justice still! High Justice!

The incantations. They percolated her head, ploughing monotonously, relentlessly, through her thoughts, even over the terrible din of battle, and it took a moment before Maatmeses realised why. Her brow darkened, and a feral turn marred her lips.

Istnofret.

She had been surrounded by priests, back in Numas. With a stark crack, Maatmeses slammed the butts of her khopesh against a Nehekharan’s skull. Istnofret! That treacherous bitch might even have counted amongst the priests’ numbers. Her cursed face had no so much as aged a day, from that which Maatmeses could remember.

Two more soldiers died by her vengeance, their stomachs opened, slick and shiny, onto the earth, as the vampire stalked purposefully through the host of spearmen. Istnofret would be found with the priests again. She was certain. A ravenous gleam entered her eyes, but it was not the ravenous gleam of other vampires; its tastes were not for blood, or death.

It hungered for vengeance.

With a deathly sigh, the skeleton plunged its rusted blade into the neck of a horse. There was a hot spray that coated the grinning, fleshless, skull, and then the beast vanished, swept beneath a tide of bone, metal and wood. More skeletons marched forward, their feet treading slow but sure, rank after rank of the walking dead that surged toward the Nehekharans. They had but one thought in mind:

Murder.

Nebtawi and Issa marched at their fore, and the vampires wreaked a bloody toll on their enemies. The first moved with precision, decades of experience guiding his massive blade expertly in his grasp. Where he trod, the Nehekharans died.

“What has become of your soldiers?” he cried, the aged vampire lashing out with his khopesh. The two-handed weapon clove clean through a charioteer, sinking deep into the chassis of the chariot itself. With a grunt he wrenched it free, noticing for but a second as his enemy’s blood pooled into the newly-created groove. Every drop was owed him and his brothers. Owed the Maatmesin.

“Your blood is mine by right, and none can withstand me!”

To his right, Issa sprang from chariot to chariot. He pounced like a starving hound between the soldiers, no more in control of his actions than a rabid beast. Nebtawi knew what guided the vampire, and it was not hunger, or pleasure, or even grief. He was too far gone for such complex emotions.

The man hated. It was as simple as that. Even as Nebtawi watched, he clambered swiftly over a chariot’s chassis, fingers tearing into armour, flesh and bone with equal measure. An unholy light shone in his eyes, lurid and unsightly as the twin moons themselves, on a dark, cloudless night. It unnerved even him to see it.

Another chariot rolled toward him, and at the last minute Nebtawi span aside. Darting to the left, his khopesh struck out, shearing through equine limbs and creaking wood in the same deathly breath. The carnage that ensued, as the chariot flipped and crashed through his skeleton guard, was deeply satisfying.

“Can none contend with me? Can none in all of Nehekhara compete against my strength, my skill? I do not remember men so weak as this!” He would find them! It was easy to claim the lives of the weak. He had but to reach out with his ancient blade, and they fell, lifeless, before him. It was against the worthy that he tested his mettle! Only against the worthy did his vengeance feel truly complete. Overhead, the sunless skies filled with the cawing of carrion, as they descended bodily to gorge themselves on the ranks of the dead.

Issa vanished behind another chariot, but movement caught Nebtawi’s full attention. A banner shone out, taunting him, pulling strings of angst within his heart.

The Jackal Squadron of Mahrak. That hated legion, which decades ago had marched the streets of Lahmia, murdering and burning all in their path. That hated legion who had so furiously defied him and his forces in defence of their precious city, when the legions of Nagash had passed through Nehekhara. His stomach turned with a mixture of excitement and hatred.

They owed him much, and he would personally exact that toll .

Darting through the ranks of chariots, which swept like a tide against his skeletons, he honed in on their banner. Two steeds reared, terrified, before him, their hooves lashing out to strike at his face, but the vampire ducked smoothly beneath their flailing limbs. He gutted them and hurried on.

Another chariot swept into his path.

“Get out of my way!” he snarled, his voice a hiss, but the soldier struck out at him. The man’s blade shone with a fierce light.

Nebtawi’s khopesh flashed upward, blocking the fatal blow.

“Die, cursed blood-drinker!” cried the man, and the vampire recognised the searing hatred that burned in his adversary’s eyes. Something of respect flickered through his undead heart, before he span round, his mighty weapon smashing through the body of the chariot and into the man’s waist. He flopped in two from the back of his mount, dead before he hit the ground, and Nebtawi stalked around the ruined construct.

The warriors of the Jackal Squadron would feel the bite of his justice, before the battle was out.

The creature moved with impossible grace. It struck out, its blade and blur, and before Talamanke could so much as move, the khopesh had plunged into his side.

Blackness engulfed his vision, and an impossible pain enveloped him. Ammon’s blade fell from his nerveless fingers, and without so much as a last thought, Talamanke died.

Even as his corpse tumbled to the sands, a pair of vultures descended from the skies onto him, ravenous for the same dark tastes as the very monster that had just slain him, and the battle still raging around them, the servants of Ualapt devoured their spoils.

A priest of Ptra… Obvious from the sun god’s shining emblem. Another of the same, and a third. All chanting and shouting, clinging desperately to the ancient power of the words that spilled from their sand-dry mouths. Maatmeses was revolted by such mindless faith, for it mirrored the Great Necromancer’s own hold over her will. A sharp chill raked at her heart.

The gods of Nehekhara could not be trusted. They harkened back to an age when the kingdoms were still young, and even the liche priests had not yet established their mystical mortuary rituals.

Maatmeses’ eyes glittered like obsidian shards in her face. There was power in the priests’ invocations, yes. That much was evident from the ruination the fiery light brought to her ranks. She grinned. It was a mirthless expression.

The gods’ strength had long waned. Against the rising of the Cult of Nagash, against the perpetual dark of the desert nights and the indomitable will of her vengeance, the gods had weakened. Soon, they would be forgotten relics of a dead kingdom. A kingdom damned by its own unlawful actions.

Her unforgiving gaze pierced the enemy ranks. More priests, all servants of Ptra. Istnofret had to be here somewhere. All of Nehekhara was amassed against them, and in the face of such enemies as she, they would cling to their priests for support. For belief. For strength against the abominations that the walking dead stood for. She had spent long enough in the Land of the Great River to know that the mortals perceived them as such.

Screams of anguish filled her ears, carrying through the dark sky to mingle with the caws of the carrion, and the clash of blade on blade. Through the chorus of battle Maatmeses strode, closer and closer to the congregation of priestly disciples. At her back strode the Nehekharans’ ‘abominations,’ endless ranks of gleaming skeletons. Her weathered face tightened, like a leathery mask.

It was the living who were the abominations. It was they who had defied all sense of justice, all lawful conduct, when they had besieged Lahmia! They who had ruined everything she had ever known, ever worked for, ever strived to achieve. Her life had been dedicated to law, and justice, and punishments, and in one fell swoop, the Nehekharans had descended like a ravaging plague on Lahmia, and devoured everything. Everything!

They were the abominations, not she! Abominations, abominations, and for that alone they were deserving of death!

“And I shall deliver it! Justice must be had!”

A figure caught her eye then, and Maatmeses froze. Skeletons marched passed her, their feet unfaltering, but still she did not move. She had only eyes for one person. One figure. One memory, stepped straight from her head into the dim light of the battlefield before her.

Istnofret.

Before Maatmeses could move, a shower of bone washed over her. Shards of skull and brittle rib pattered against her flesh, and a shadow, thicker and blacker than the surrounding gloom, swept over her.

The Ushabti’s blade smashed into her chest, cleaving deep into Maatmeses’ breastplate and knocking the vampire to the sands. The stench of blood filled the air, hot and salty on the Dread Lord’s tongue, and a cool breeze swept through her. The monstrous statue stepped closer. Its feet sank into the sands. Gems glittered dully at its breastplate, and Maatmeses hair fluttered slowly at the edge of her helmet.

She could not feel the bite of the animated statue’s weapon, but it smarted nonetheless. Istnofret was here. Maatmeses had found her, and none would get in the way of their business, especially not the animated plaything of some decrepit priest. Istnofret had far too much to account for. Snarling, the ancient vampire sprang to her feet.

The Ushabti struck again, its temple khopesh sweeping round in a sideways arc. This time Maatmeses was ready, and at the last second she leapt back. The blade whisked inches passed her face.

Then she sprang forward, her face twisted into a bestial mask of fangs, hate, and scales, and brought her own weapons slicing forward. They smashed into the construct’s neck and, powered by her unholy strength, continued through to the other side, its jackal-like head toppling with a thud to the sands. The construct shivered, its limbs shaking against the arcane energies that rushed to their escape from its husk, then fell lifeless to the ground. Maatmeses stepped over the wreckage and toward her quarry.

She had no time for distractions. Istnofret would pay! She could see the woman clearly now. Skeletons marched periodically between her view as they strode forward into battle, but her ancient eyes remained unflinching. They fixed on Istnofret and did not so much as blink, lest the woman slip from her sight. A hundred memories welled up, dredged from the dark recesses of her mind, and each one undid a little of her sanity on its surfacing.

Two-dozen steps and she would be there. Her feet moved purposefully. The stench of blood and rot dissipated from her senses.

Fifteen steps. The sounds of battle faded away, replaced by the voices in her head, those long-imprisoned memories come crawling back.

Ten steps. There was only the clink of her armour now, and the feel of the straps against her flesh, to anchor her to the battle. Her skin was like marble, unfeeling.

Six. She blinked, once, a reptilian gesture that was all the more fearsome for appearing on her face. She licked her lips.

Two. Istnofret. Istnofret, that cursed woman of a life long since passed. It could not be her, and it was. Maatmeses shook, but it could not have been from excitement, for her dead veins did not enforce such physical manifestation of her emotions.

Hate toyed with her features, melding them into something horrific, something monstrous, barely recognisable as human. She drew one, unearthly lungful of battle-spoiled air, as Istnofret turned and saw her. Venom shone lurid in her eyes.

“Istnofret…It has been too long, my sister.”

The air was cool. The wind swept fierce, bearing the stench of death to every inch of the battlefield. Blood stained the sands, turning them a sticky red and matting the grasses to the earth.

It was in this swirling madness that the Jackal Squadron died.

Nebtawi struck with the strength of his vampiric kind, fought with the fierceness of the wronged Maatmesin, and struck out with the skill and finesse of the Lahmian city guard of old. He had practiced the style for decades, and knew it as intimately as the cleverest mathematician his sums, or the wisest physician his herbs.

Against this undead veteran, the skilled warriors of the Jackal Squadron were powerless. They leaped forward, khopesh flashing, spears stabbing, and always Nebtawi moved. He wove in and out of their blade-strikes as though they were children, and not seasoned warriors in their own right.

His speed was preternatural, and the mere mortals could not hope to compete with him.

In Mahrak, they had fought for their home. They had guarded the streets that their children had played in. They had fought to defend the temples that houses the sacred spirits of their ancient gods, and they had defended the palace of their most venerable and just of priest kings.

Here, now, on the Lush Plains, Nebtawi had every inch their iron resolve to triumph, and in his determination, he matched them for their only advantage.

“Die, blood-drin-” screamed a soldier, even as the aged vampire’s might khopesh ripped open his ribcage. The feeble bronze of their armour was of no protection against his ferocity. It was pitiful.

“Come! Test yourselves against me! You shame all Nehekhara with your pathetic efforts, and the gods themselves disown you for them!” Nebtawi snarled, and chuckled. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. This was it, the battle to end all battles. Once they had triumphed over Alcadizzar and the army of the Land of the Great River, all Nehekhara would be the vampires’, and their Dark Lord Nagash’s, and they would know a peace.

They could return to Lahmia, and he would resurrect the guard there, and defend the city for all eternity, and his life would know meaning once more. He hissed, and lashed out as two more warriors charged toward him. His terrible strength shattered bone and knocked them from their feet, to be put from their misery by the numberless skeletons that marched at his back.

In death, there was peace. He could not deny it, when confronted with the madness of the Nehekharan host. Theirs was a sweating army, a rabble of soft meat and fear and stinking terror. They screamed and cried and fell prey to their panic, even as his skeletons marched resolutely forward. They did not falter, or sweat with terror, or flee from the gleaming weapons of their enemies. They marched obediently forward, and they grinned in the faces of the living, for they knew the same truth he did.

It was only right that he put the mortals out of their abject misery, and introduced them to the sanctity of death, and the timelessness of servitude. With the bodies slain here today, he would raise a new guard of Lahmia, and they would be trained to his standards, and the city would never again fall to the depredations of the living.

Everything he had hoped for was coming to pass, he could feel it.

More screams sounded aloud, the crescendo of death attaining ever new heights, and Nebtawi laughed. His wrinkled throats shook with mirth at the death that unfolded around him. He could feel the lives of the living as they were extinguished by the blades of his and Issa’s skeletal regiment, and it was good. It was good.

Issa…He wondered for a moment where the manic blood-drinker had got to; the man was savage, and uncontrollable, he could well be deep in the enemy’s ranks by now. He was more than capable of looking after himself, but it would not do to leave him all the killing!

Another rank of Mahrak’s chosen raced toward him, cries to the great Jackal god leaping from their lips, and with a grim smile Nebtawi braced himself for combat to be joined once more.
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

Chapter 21: The Crocodile and the Cat
IC -1152

A mass of screaming children ran toward the river, their small, olive bodies glistening from the heat of the midday sun. It was irrepressible, driving the children toward the wet cool of the water as a farmer his cattle to the plains. The scene of perfume hung thick on the air, a cloud of pungent spices that followed the group of children wherever they raced.

Of all the children of the nobles of Lahmia, these were amongst the richest.

“Catch me if you can!” cried one of the girls, before dashing into the shallows of the rushing river. The water was cold and refreshing against her skin. She waded deeper.

“Istnofret! Get out of the river! Mother says it isn’t safe!” The mob of jostling children ran further along the bank, chasing after some imaginary enemy of the great city, leaving one small girl behind. “She says beasts lurk in the river!”

“Well, I can’t see any, said Istnofret, who proceeded to scan her surroundings with such an intense look of mock-scrutiny that the second girl stomped her foot. A spray of sand spluttered into the shallows.

“Maybe you’re too scared, Maatmeses?” Istnofret began to giggle and turn in circles, splashing her feet and chanting aloud, “scared-scared-run-away-never-to-come-back-again!”

Suddenly Maatmeses was in her, and upon her sister. Water churned. The girls shrieked, and together the two toppled headfirst into the river.

“Not-not scared!” spluttered Maatmeses, half choking mouthful of muddy water. It tasted horrible, but refreshed the dryness of her mouth. “Told you I wasn’t!”

“Maatmeses, now I’m soaking!” Face as dark as the oldest necropolis, Istnofret clambered unceremoniously to her feet. “My clothes will bake hard in this sun!”

“Shouldn’t have teased me then, serves you right. You got what you deserved!” cried her sister jubilantly, but Istnofret was already skipping out of the water.

“We’re not even ten yet, you don’t need to be so serious about everything. Look, a temple cat!” The beast stalked slowly into view, moving with the supple grace of a Nubian princess, and with just as much majesty. Istnofret raced toward the animal, who did not flee, but stood its ground, and allowed itself to be wrapped in her arms upon her arrival. A husky purr reverberated against her chest. “Look at it! Maatmeses look, its so beautiful.” She turned to her sister, who walked slowly through the knee-deep water toward the bank. She looked thoroughly unenthused by the temple cat.

“I’ve seen them before, when going to the temple with mother. She will probably take you too, when you’re older. There’s loads of them there, all different shapes and colours.” She paused. “Istnofret, what is the matter?” Her sister’s face had paled, and she stared wide-eyed at her sister. The cat hissed, a throaty, venomous sound, and leaped away across the sands. “Istnofret?”

The girl pointed. Maatmeses turned, following her outstretched finger back toward the river, and found herself face to face with a monster.

A deep, sonorous sound rippled slowly from its jaws. Maatmeses didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her legs were frozen still. Even when Istnofret’s terrified screams pierced the air, and the monster glided slowly closer, she could not move. To say the girl was entranced was an understatement.

The beast stared at her, and she stared back, totally encapsulated by its ancient yellow eyes. The creature was massive, a beast of muscle and scale and long, sharp tooth, but its eyes spoke volumes to her. They were honest eyes. Trusting eyes. Judgemental eyes. She dared a breath, and found the monster indifferent.

No, not monster. This was one of Sobki’s servants. She had heard mother talk about them before, the great guardians of the rivers. She felt…awed by it, but not afraid.

The beast came to a stop less than a foot away. Its massive snout rose from the water to inspect her. Judge her. Test her. She stared into its eyes, and it stared right back into her soul, and something in her changed.

Shouts broke her from her reverie. Screams, and thick, strong arms around her waist, lifting her up and away. She watched the beast as it slipped beneath the murky water’s surface and was gone again, the last of the its scales sinking from sight, and saw it again, and again, in her mind’s eye, for many days to come.

The woman looked just as she remembered. Same tawny hair, glittering green eyes, elegant poise and sculpted cheekbones. It was her attire that changed her. The last time Maatmeses had seen her, Istnofret had been in simple household robes. Luxurious and light, yes, but day-to-day wear nonetheless. The woman stood before her was dressed in the fashion of the priesthoods. Bangles clung to her arms, gloriously gold even in the dim light of the battlefield, and long white cloth hung from her arms and shoulders. At her shoulders rested a collar, every bit as magnificent as the one her own Ptoleme sported, and sacred hieroglyphs stained her flesh with swirls of black. She recognised the emblems as readily as any other denizen of Nehekhara would have: the insignia of the cat goddess Basth. When she spoke, it was as a voice from the past.

“Maatmeses. I barely recognise you to look at, and yet I know it is you.” Her words smarted. She had changed much from the mortal she had once been.

“And yet you look exactly the same as I last saw you, that morning before your trial. The deserts have been most kind to you, my treacherous snake of a sister.”

“Had I not fled, you would have sentenced me to death that day. Your own flesh and blood, Maatmeses. You were every inch the monster then that you are now.” The vampire hissed and spat, her eyes flashing yellow. Judging.

“You took him from me! You lured my Kheruef away from me, with your lust and your beauty. You took away the only thing I trusted in, the last thing I trusted in, besides my law-keeping. You made me what I am.”

All around the two, battle unfolded. Skeletons stepped forwards, rusted blades plunging into soft flesh, even as glittering spear points stabbed forward, removing skulls and shattering bones. The living fell, their lives guttered, and the dead rose up to battle once again. The smell of hot, fresh blood mingled with that of the walking dead, the pestilent tang of rot and rancid pus. Screams pierced the overcast skies, rising up over the low, steady chant of Nehekhara’s priestly guardians.

“You are a beast. An Abomination. Look at yourself, Maatmeses, you are a blood-drinker! How can you abide this? You speak of your laws, yet this goes against every natural law conceivable! The gods themselves abhor you, and your unholy existence. You are a blasphemy.” Istnofret shook her head as she spoke, betraying the shame that filled her voice. “I thought you dead long ago, entombed in ancient Lahmia, free of this madness, this terrible plague that afflicts the land…and now I learn you are part of it.”

“The living are the plague. They have no morals, no considerations. They came to Lahmia with their spears and their chariots and tore out city down - our city, Istnofret - they burned everything that I ever knew to ashes and dust. There was no justice in their actions. No honour. No reason, and for this they injustice they must be repaid!”

“The nobles of Lahmia murdered and gorged themselves on the innocent, so that they might live on in undeath! This is not right, can’t you see that?” Maatmeses did not laugh. She could not. Instead, her lips twisted into a grim smile, like the slippery maw of some terrible serpent.

“The innocent…Few are the truly innocent, my sister. It is something I have come to learn, through my long years as High Justice. Even a sister can turn on her own, and for something so trivial as mindless lust!”

“I loved him!” screamed Istnofret, and suddenly the two were upon each other. The High Priestess struck out, her dagger-like claws flashing toward Maatmeses with divine speed and burying themselves into her gut. The vampire growled, a deep, earthy sound, and span her sister around, throwing the woman to the sands. Istnofret landed with the grace of her namesake, and sprang back up.

“You are not the only one of us to have changed, Maatmeses. I have been blessed by Basth, charged with the defence of her temples. I am her favoured servant, and her love wards me from ungodly evils such as you have become!”

In response, the vampire flashed forward. Khopesh in hands, she lashed out with them, tearing through the air as fast as arrows and scything toward Istnofret’s face. They missed by an inch, but she struck again, and again.

“Justice will be had! It will be had!”

Istnofret cried out and sprang back. Blood ran quick down her arm, three thin rivulets of crimson that met at her underarm and dripped with a splash to the sands. Maatmeses grinned, an expression that died when, seconds later, her sister’s eyes flashed green, and the wound sealed effortlessly back together. Istnofret hissed and leaped forward into combat again.

The woman moved with the grace of the cat goddess herself. Her feet barely touched the sandy earth as she moved, a breath of desert air. She stepped closer to Maatmeses, twisting into a pirouette with a lithe flick of her left leg, then springing up and over the vampire with a kick from her right. Arms flashed down and the vampire screamed. The Claws of Basth slipped in and out of her shoulder with the speed and sting of scorpion’s tail, but the wound did not draw blood, and the scream was one of frustration more than anything else. Maatmeses span on her heel and hurled a khopesh wildly, poison spitting from her throat - a glistening globule of blood, saliva and contempt.

“Die Istnofret, die! You are no sister of mine!” Her chest rose and fell. The red-mist filled her eyes, a seething cloud of bloodlust, vengeance and hate. She was a creature of madness, unfettered by the shouts and scents of battle. Her head thrashed and she growled, that guttural, crocodilian sound that was becoming so frequent a habit.

Only once her vision cleared, and Maatmeses looked up, did she see for the first time the prone form of Istnofret.

The woman lay spread-eagled on the sands, her limbs askew where she had fallen. The glittering emerald had faded from her eyes, and Maatmeses’ khopesh jutted from her throat, a beacon of gold and retribution to the wronged vampire’s eyes. Blood pooled from the wound, a rich, red river that seeped from the corpse into the sands.

“Justice…” she breathed, and her voice rattled with relief of centuries.

The monotonous chanting of a hundred priests rose over the ruckus of battle, their dry, pained voices calling out in desperation to the gods of Nehekhara. Their solemn majesty filled the air, centuries of practice shaking the heavens and invoking the righteous power of their ancient pantheon. The fell sorceries of the nobles of Lahmia and their ilk could not be allowed to persist. The dead must not be allowed to awaken!

For their part, the vampires’ voices waxed and waned, shrieks of power and gibbered curses that pierced the dull chorus of the liche-priests’ chants and stabbed at the Lush Plains, from the thick storm clouds, where lightning flickered and thunder growled, to the bloodied earth, where the corpses of the slain twitched, and were disturbed from their untimely deaths. The winds blew strong, the clouds blew black, and the men of Nehekhara blew their last breaths as the relentless armies of the walking dead enveloped them. Hope flickered and died like a guttering torch, and even the glorious example set by Priest-King Alcadizzar and his bodyguard could not rekindle it.

Oblivious to all of this was Issa. He tore through the ranks of the Sun Cohort of Numas, rending armour and shredding flesh with claws and teeth alike. The vampire had lost what little remained of himself in the heat of battle, and weapons had quickly proved more effort than they were worth. His eyes shone with a lurid light as he murdered the guardians of Numas’ gates, and one word repeated itself through his mind, over and over so that it was all he knew.

“Eshe…”

Three of the soldiers ran toward him, and four more approached from his sides and back. They were all around him, stabbing with spears, and swinging for his neck with gleaming khopesh. The vampire sported several wounds, fresh scars criss-crossing his arms and legs, but was otherwise unharmed. They were so slow, and he was so fast…

Snarling, he pounced. The movement bore him into the two nearest his front, claw-like fingers punching through their breastplates and through into their chests. His knuckles stung; many were the hearts he had plucked out this day already, and he showed no sign of slowing, but the pain was barely noticeable. He was dead, after all. Pain was inconsequential.

He was dead. Eshe was dead. But she was dead in a different way. She was really dead! In less than a second he was up and upon the third of the men before him, fangs sinking into his mouth and lips and tongue. A choked scream erupted into his mouth, then fell silent.

Something pierced his side, and his arm flashed instinctively down. He plucked the spear from his cold flesh and span around, the weapon swinging with him into the first of the four soldiers. The spear shattered against his skull, but Issa was unperturbed, instead springing forwards and impaling the next two on its remaining length. They died side by side.

The last lashed out, his khopesh arcing round to bite at Issa’s neck.

He ducked under the blow, came up within the man’s reach, and hurled him bodily into the rank behind. Saliva ran from his lips, mingled with the hot, fresh blood of others, and his hair was a matted mess of congealed crimson. Once olive flesh shone pale, a waxen statue in the shadow of the sun.

“Eshe!” he screamed, yellowing teeth exposed. “Eshe!”

“Cursed One, I shall put you to death for the murder you have committed! Not just here, but all the long decades of your most unnatural life!” The voice was noble, commanding the respect of all who heard it.

“Eshe…Eshe…” The word trailed into a sibilant hiss.

Then the man lunged forward, weapon scything down. It was different, this blade. Issa could feel it, even if he did not understand it anymore. A heat, a power radiated from it, and the line of ancient hieroglyphs that ran down the length of the golden weapon.

Issa side-stepped the blow and span around clasping the man’s arm in an iron-like grip. His eyes shone, unblinking, and the vampire’s teeth sank into the soft, fresh meat of his arm.

Or at least they should have. A thick greave separated the soldier’s arm from Issa’s mouth, and even his sharp fangs could not pierce it. Quite the opposite, a burning sensation flared across his gums, and the snarling vampire recoiled.

“For Numas, and for my sacred Sun Cohort!” shouted the man, back-handing the repulsed vampire and stepping closer to maintain the distance. His fist collided with Issa’s face, and there was a blunt ‘thock.’

“Issa!” hissed the vampire savagely, springing suddenly atop the man. He could not have expected the move; none would have, such was its ferocity. He fell backwards to the sands, the beast atop him.

“Prince Imrathepis!” came a shout from their right. “Around the Prince! Save our sacred Prince!” Issa could not hear the men, and if he could, he would not have understood the language that was once his own. He had thoughts for only one thing.

Grave-breath washed over Prince Imrathepis’ face, cold and rancid, and something wet and stagnant splattered against his cheeks. He gagged, and struggled, throwing his weight against the sands but the vampire might has well have been a tomb, or one of the great pyramids themselves, for it would not shift.

He heard them then, the sobering screams of battle, the feel of the breeze - no matter how cold or unfriendly - against his flesh. His mind went immediately to Numas, that golden city of glory, and his father. It had all been for nothing. Nehekhara and all the Great Desert would fall to the vile taint of the walking dead, and the Usurper.

He closed his eyes as fangs stabbed hard into his neck, and shuddered bodily.

The weight was thrown from above him. He rolled, sand sticking to his lips and face from the sweat, and jumped to his feet. Two soldiers of the Sun Cohort had dragged the beast off, though they were paying dearly for the act. Before his very eyes the blood-drinker lived up to its name, snapping the first as though he was a stick of incense, and nuzzling his face into the exposed ridge of neck. Imrathepis grunted, snatched his glowing khopesh from the earth, stepped up behind the cursed one and swung.

Issa turned, but his eyes fixing on the white-hot weapon as it fell, but it was too late for him. Other thoughts filled his head, thoughts far detached from the bitter battle.

Eshe’s skin felt warm against his own, and flushed with a bronze tint, for a moment returning to the hue it had been in life. It would not last, they both knew. The unhealthy pallor always returned, and with it, the hunger. He stepped into her, closing the gap between them, and together they stood, locked in each other’s arms.

“Issa…” she said, her voice a sigh.

Sunshine poured over them, streaming through the balcony and into the chamber within. From their vantage point, in the uppermost chamber of Lahmia’s courts, the entirety of the city was spread out beneath them. It was an awe-inspiring sight, to watch as the citizens went about their daily chores, and the city guard stood statue-like atop the towering walls. Even the priests could be spied upon, moving like ants in the furthest shrines, performing the rites that would appease the gods like Ptra and Phakth and ensure the world lived on, for another day at least.

Chariots raced through the streets, much to the chagrin of several bystanders, and the bustle of the city was audible as a faint murmur even from this height. A hundred smells intermingled, swaying in strength in accordance to the breeze. Fish, salty and fresh, overpowered roasting gazelle, and over that the malt-aroma of bread and beer. From the balcony on which Issa and Eshe stood, Lahmia was a feast for the senses.

They had eyes only for each other.

“You do not have to do this,” said Issa, whispering in his Eshe’s ears, but even as he spoke, he knew it was a lie.

“But I do, Issa. Do not pretend to misunderstand. You know that I will do as I am told, for Lahmia, and for the High Justice.”

“Eshe, all of Nehekhara is amassed against us. There is no hope of victory, no chance that we might endure this. It is too much!”

“And I will die doing what is right, then!” she snapped suddenly. “Do not ask me to disobey all that I value, you know I cannot do it.” Her chest rose and fell passionately against his own, and for a moment the only sound was that of the city below. Off on the horizon, a storm of sand rose slowly into view.

“What of me? Am I of no value to you, Eshe?” He lifted his hands to either side of her face, and wiped at the tears that spilled from her eyes. The ruby droplets smeared across her skin. “I love you.”

“I love you too Issa, more than anything else in this world. That is why I must go, that is why I will defend the courts and the library here with my last breath. The High Justice gave me this gift, this chance at immortality, and through it I have met you. You. I owe her you, and am bound by my love - if nothing else - to do as she bids.” Issa’s vision blurred and he leaned in again at Eshe’s words, to hide his own tears from her. Somewhere, far off into the distance, a horn sounded. It was followed by a chorus of similar sounds.

When Eshe spoke again, there was a hardness to her voice, as something fierce stirred within.

“I would die defending my honour, and the lore that has bound Lahmia together all these centuries. I cannot think of a more fitting end, I, falling in defence of our laws, our justice, and you, fighting with every last fibre in your body alongside the High Justice herself.” She clutched him tighter. “I am so proud of you.”

The tiny figures atop the city walls were a sea of action, swarming to and from the courtyards below as messages were passed and orders received. Several more horns sounded, this time from within Lahmia itself, and panicked screams rose from the crowd-filled streets. In the midst of all this mayhem, the silhouette on the balcony kissed, an intense, almost angry display, their still warm lips locked tight together. It was a lonely love in a city of monsters.

Issa remembered the curve of her lips, the rise of her cheeks, her long raven-black hair, and the way in which her eyes sparkled like stars in the darkness of night. He watched the enchanted khopesh as it scythed toward him, but had only eyes for Eshe’s graceful steps, the way she pursed her lips in court, and the smell of rose water that the vampire had loved, and worn, so much.

He felt every inch of the blade as it clove into his neck, and it was agony, and he screamed as the ensorcelled metal took his head clean from his shoulders, feeling not only the searing wound but Eshe’s death, and Lahmia’s ruin, and the pain of heartache and injustice, and of the decades spent in the bowels of that cursed fortress under His command, and his scream of agony rose high into the air, a terrible second of infinite suffering.

Then his head was gone, and the sound stopped. His body slumped over, just another corpse in a desert of many, and the battle continued heedless.

Almost heedless.

Nebtawi watched as Issa’s head flew from his shoulders. His gut clenched and ancient eyes flickered wide with shock. Issa was slain. His blood-brother, a Maatmesin of Lahmia. Dead. The ache of injustice smarted at his conscience, emerging as a deathly hiss. This was not fair! He would avenge the death of his sickened brother! The Prince Imrathepis would die!

Something prickled at his senses, and the vampire paused. It felt like a scarab was crawling across his skull, and under his flesh. Uncontrollable shivers wracked his body and the aged vampire gasped.

The tickling sensation spread, flaring through his lungs and chest and stomach, and Nebtawi fell into a strained crouch.

All across the ruined plains, the blood-drinkers of Lahmia reacted similarly. The Dread Lord Neferata’s handmaidens screeched, long, banshee wails that pierced the clouds with their clarity. Harakhte’s blood-guard faltered, long-swords falling from their nerveless fingers, and Lord Ushoran’s gets collapsed to the sands like wretched dogs, howling and snarling at the inner turmoil that assaulted them. Even the vampire priests of the Cult of Nagash choked on their words, ancient syllables swept away by the rushing winds, their masters momentarily distracted.

Maatmeses twitched and staggered back. Her lips curled back over needle-like fangs and it was through great physical effort that she righted herself. Cries of anguish filled her ears, even as the distress of her children sang loud and clear in her blood. They were aching. They were aching!

Then she heard it, the shout that undid a lifetime of suffering and servitude and made sense of this madness, and the once-great High Justice herself gasped at the news that reached her ears:

“Vashanesh is slain! Vashanesh is defeated!”

She could feel it. A shadow lifted from her heart, her mind. A presence gone, dissipated like so much mist from over her. The chinks of sun seemed brighter, the shadows darker, the stench of battle richer, more vivid to her senses. Nagash’s hold was undone. His godly grip loosened from around their necks!

Memories filled her head. The flashes of recollection struck at her with an almost tangible force, and Maatmeses staggered back again. Moments of conflict from the last five decades resurfaced in her head, and it was as though she could see herself clearly for the first time, a creature of service, bound to the Dark Lord’s will as a dog to a chain. She shook her head.

No more. No more! She would be free of him, free of the prison that he had made for her! They all would! He would hunt them, seek them out to subjugate once more, but she cared not. She was her own master now. Her word was law; she would answer to no-one. Head raised, Maatmeses called out to her children of law, and together they ran.
 
RE: Ghosts of the Past - Ch. 4

I've got to agree with W'soran on this one, it has been a great read. :)
 
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This web site is completely unofficial and in no way endorsed by Games Workshop Limited. Adeptus Astartes, Battlefleet Gothic, Black Flame, Black Library, the Black Library logo, BL Publishing, Blood Angels, Bloodquest, Blood Bowl, the Blood Bowl logo, The Blood Bowl Spike Device, Cadian, Catachan, the Chaos device, Cityfight, the Chaos logo, Citadel, Citadel Device, City of the Damned, Codex, Daemonhunters, Dark Angels, Dark Eldar, Dark Future, the Double-Headed/Imperial Eagle device, 'Eavy Metal, Eldar, Eldar symbol devices, Epic, Eye of Terror, Fanatic, the Fanatic logo, the Fanatic II logo, Fire Warrior, Forge World, Games Workshop, Games Workshop logo, Genestealer, Golden Demon, Gorkamorka, Great Unclean One, the Hammer of Sigmar logo, Horned Rat logo, Inferno, Inquisitor, the Inquisitor logo, the Inquisitor device, Inquisitor:Conspiracies, Keeper of Secrets, Khemri, Khorne, Kroot, Lord of Change, Marauder, Mordheim, the Mordheim logo, Necromunda, Necromunda stencil logo, Necromunda Plate logo, Necron, Nurgle, Ork, Ork skull devices, Sisters of Battle, Skaven, the Skaven symbol devices, Slaanesh, Space Hulk, Space Marine, Space Marine chapters, Space Marine chapter logos, Talisman, Tau, the Tau caste designations, Tomb Kings, Trio of Warriors, Twin Tailed Comet Logo, Tyranid, Tyrannid, Tzeentch, Ultramarines, Warhammer, Warhammer Historical, Warhammer Online, Warhammer 40k Device, Warhammer World logo, Warmaster, White Dwarf, the White Dwarf logo, and all associated marks, names, races, race insignia, characters, vehicles, locations, units, illustrations and images from the Blood Bowl game, the Warhammer world, the Talisaman world, and the Warhammer 40,000 universe are either ®, TM and/or © Copyright Games Workshop Ltd 2000-2009, variably registered in the UK and other countries around the world. Used without permission. No challenge to their status intended. All Rights Reserved to their respective owners.

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