The End Times: The Return of Nagash

‘I… can,’ he said. He crossed to her as faint echoes of memory were stirred from the sludge of ages and rose unencumbered to the surface of his mind. Of another woman, of another time, of another ritual, marred by poison and betrayal. Unthinkingly, he brushed a strand of hair from her face. ‘My spirit will never know peace. I must play my part until the end of time.’

‘I thought I would as well, but the world had other plans,’ she whispered, not looking at him. ‘My path changed. And I cannot bear to see where it is taking me.’

‘I… knew a woman like you, once,’ he croaked, wondering as he spoke why he was bothering to do so. What matter to him the travails of a madwoman? Then, perhaps his unlife had simply given him perspective. Even as a man, he had never been given to torture. ‘She too was afraid, and had lost the voice of her goddess.’ He fell silent.

She looked at him, and for a moment he saw the face of another superimposed over hers. A pale face, framed by hair the colour of night, with eyes like molten pools and lips that could change from kind to cruel with the merest twitch. Even now, when his mind was not otherwise occupied, he could see her face. Her hands reached up to stroke his jawbone. ‘What happened to her?’ she murmured.

‘She persevered,’ he said. ‘She was a queen, and queens do not know fear for long.’

Morgiana closed her eyes. ‘I do not think I will have that opportunity. You will kill me, won’t you?’ she asked again.

‘I will,’ Arkhan said. ‘In the end, nine are required for the final ritual, though eight will suffice. But no less than that.’ He stroked her cheek. Some part of him snarled in warning, but he ignored it. The chamber had been replaced by another in his mind’s eye, of cool marble and sandstone. He could smell the ocean, and hear the rustle of silk curtains. ‘There will be no pain… That I swear.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘That is what I needed to know.’ Her hand dropped. A moment later, his knife was jerked from its sheath and Morgiana had its tip pressed to the flesh over her heart. The flesh of her hand sizzled as the malign enchantments wrought into the blade resisted her touch. Marble and silk again became mouldy stone and the stink of abused flesh.

Arkhan lunged forward, hand outstretched. ‘Neferata,’ he rasped, momentarily uncertain what was memory and what was reality. She shoved him back, her vampiric strength taking him by surprise. He staggered. ‘No, please…’ he said, still caught in the tangled strands of memory. He saw Neferata writhing on her bed, caught in the throes of an agonising death. He felt Abhorash’s blade, as it cut him down. The full weight of the last, worst moment of a life badly spent crashed down on him for the first time in centuries, and he could not bear it. ‘Please don’t!’ The words were ripped from him before he even realised that he’d said them.