Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘She wanted us to kill you, you know,’ Rudek said as he heaved himself up. His skin was blistered and peeling. Cracks of green mingled with the veins of black in his flesh, as the lingering traces of abn-i-khat spread through him. ‘From the very minute you caught up with us, your ragged little pack of tomb-robbers at your back and Abhorash on your trail, she wanted you dead. Said we could buy a few months grace from Ushoran’s wrath with your head. Vorag caught on and disciplined her. I think she rather enjoyed it. The Bloodytooth thinks we need you, that we need your magics. He is frightened of Ushoran…’

‘And you, Rudek, what do you think?’ W’soran said carefully. Thoughts of fate and the past faded, obscured by plans for the future.

‘I think you have betrayed more than one master, old monster. And you will betray more before your sands are run out,’ Rudek said.

‘You are wise, in your time,’ W’soran said. He reached out and pressed a finger to the still bubbling wound in Rudek’s shoulder. ‘Too wise, I fear. Goodbye, Rudek, your cousin sends his regards.’

The green cracks suddenly widened. Rudek’s flesh ripped and split, and the vampire made to scream. It was childishly easy to agitate the lingering residue in the wound, and return it to volatility. Abn-i-khat reacted strongly to the merest whisper of the winds of magic. The green cracks spread, tunnelling through Rudek’s flesh. He tried to jerk back from W’soran’s fingertips, but was held in place by the curling magics that shuddered through him. Steam belched from his open jaws and his eyes went from red to pink to the ugly white of a badly boiled egg.

With a sound like meat sliding off the bone, Rudek toppled over, a burnt-out husk. W’soran flicked bits of cooked flesh from his fingers and stepped over the body to reclaim his scimitar. The smoke from the explosion was clearing as he dropped off the wrecked engine and strode back towards the battle. Skaven fled past him, scurrying for their holes. This army was broken. Skeletons, some blackened and burnt, tromped past in pursuit. Several Strigoi were with them. None of them so much as looked at W’soran, which suited him. There’d be questions, in time, but not until well after the fact. And none of them could challenge him.

The tread of heavy feet caught his attention. The crypt horrors and their burden approached through the smoke. The palanquin was undamaged, though its occupants could not say the same. Several were missing, and W’soran wondered whether Melkhior had followed his example and put paid to a few perceived obstacles. He grinned at the thought, amused. Melkhior was hard on his fellow apprentices. Then, he was a barbarian, and barbarians knew only one way to climb in status.

The barbarian in question crouched on the edge of the palanquin, leaning on his sword. He peered down at W’soran. ‘The battle is won, my master,’ Melkhior said.

‘So it is. Your cousin has had an accident, I’m afraid.’

‘He was always very clumsy,’ Melkhior said. ‘Vorag has arrived.’

‘Good,’ W’soran said. He jerked his chin at the palanquin. ‘You saw battle, then?’

Melkhior shifted uncomfortably. ‘Olgik and Yuri fell to the spears of the ratkin- fixed through the heart, the both of them.’

‘Then pull the spears out and wake them up,’ W’soran said.

‘The ghouls trod on them afterwards. I’m afraid there wasn’t much to save,’ Melkhior said. ‘And the rats got what was left.’ He motioned to the ground. Thousands of black rats squirmed and squealed across the battleground. They came with the skaven, but rarely left with them. The vermin tore and fought over the dead, stripping the flesh from bone in moments. W’soran eyed the rats for a moment, and flicked away one that got too close with the tip of his blade. He looked up at Melkhior.

‘The rats,’ he said.

‘The rats, yes,’ Melkhior said.

‘I trust you recovered their papyri and tomes from their bodies?’ All of his apprentices travelled with their own copies of the lore that W’soran, and they themselves, had accumulated. They fought over the scraps of his knowledge in much the same manner as the rats. As such, every one of them had secrets the others did not — bits of sorcerous lore he’d given them as a reward for some small task.

Melkhior hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.

W’soran laughed. ‘Good. Then the loss is minimal.’

‘Trust you to think that way, beast,’ a woman’s voice said.

W’soran turned. He restrained a snarl as the tall, Amazonian form of Lupa Stregga stalked towards him across the carpet of rats and bodies, her sword-arm wet to the elbow with blood and her face equally smeared. ‘Where is Rudek?’ Stregga asked.

‘Dead,’ W’soran said.

‘Why am I not surprised?’ she said harshly. She glanced at the palanquin. ‘Hello, Melkhior. Have you begun to regret accompanying the old leech from Mourkain yet?’

Melkhior stood. ‘Watch your tongue, she-wolf, or I’ll-’

‘Or you’ll what, coward?’ a voice bellowed from above.

W’soran stepped back as the great shape landed heavily between the palanquin and Stregga. Where it had come from, whether it had been clinging to the roof of the cavern or squatting nearby, he couldn’t say. The rock cracked beneath its weight and the rats fled as it rose from its crouch. It was a brute-shape, all muscle and hair. Great, cavernous jaws snapped at the air as hot eyes blazed at Melkhior.

A greased scalp lock snapped like a whip as the monstrosity spun about to face W’soran. A curved talon pointed at him. ‘Keep your curs on a leash, W’soran, or I’ll crack their skulls and suck their bones dry myself,’ Vorag Bloodytooth roared.

He had changed much in the years since he’d fled Mourkain at the head of a rebel army. Where once he’d been a man, bigger than most perhaps, he was now as frightful as Melkhior, with the bloated musculature and savage claws and fangs of an animal; his once proud beard had become a tangled mess and hair grew in lank patches from his burly form, bursting through the rents in his badly-kept armour. Only his scalp-lock remained pristine, though whether out of his vanity or Stregga’s attentions, W’soran didn’t know. Behind the hair, his face was a nightmare of devilish ridges and bony growths. Inevitably, such a physical ruination seemed to be the lot of every person gifted with Ushoran’s tainted blood-kiss, though the beast had always been close to the skin in Vorag. He’d been one of the first Strigoi turned when Ushoran had assumed the throne. Vorag had pledged his sword to the new king with a rapidity that was still spoken of with some awe in the snake-pit court of Mourkain.

But Timagal Vorag had grown dissatisfied all too quickly with his new master. And he’d found a co-conspirator of sorts in Neferata when she arrived at last, looking to worm her way into Ushoran’s good graces. Together, those two had caused much trouble. Separated from Neferata, Vorag was no less dangerous, especially with a creature like Stregga whispering in his ear. Neferata might have been smashed into subservience by Ushoran, but she had not ceased weaving webs.

‘Of course, Lord Vorag,’ W’soran said, spreading his arms and bowing low. Melkhior had done the same, as had his other apprentices. Vorag grunted and turned away, to survey the aftermath of the battle.

As he rose, W’soran saw a familiar shape behind Stregga. His robes were stained with blood and other substances and the heavy iron gauntlets covering his withered talons were splotched with rust and scorch marks. Zoar inclined his head to his master, his skeletal features twisted in a smile. W’soran smirked; Zoar was, of all of his remaining followers, one of the most capable, besides Melkhior.