Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

He glanced at the latter. Melkhior’s face was hard to read, given the extent of its deformity, but W’soran knew him well enough to know he was angry. Melkhior hated Zoar. Zoar, for his part, pretended not to notice Melkhior at all. Zoar was the last of the Yaghur, the primitive fen-dwellers that Nagash had made his own when he’d raised Nagashizzar from the mountain and made it his citadel. W’soran had seen his intelligence, and claimed him. He had claimed many; few of Nagash’s followers had been interested in self-aware servants.

Zoar, as such, felt himself privileged over all others. W’soran had never had to discipline him, as he had Melkhior or Morath. The Yaghur knew his place, and was content with it. Or such was the impression he gave.

‘Where is Rudek?’ Vorag growled, stroking his ratty beard. He’d calmed slightly. W’soran could see that blood matted his hairy arms up to his shoulders. He’d seen hard fighting in the tunnels. So had the other Strigoi — there were more than a dozen of them, all seasoned campaigners.

Of them, W’soran’s closest rival was Sanzak. The brute-faced Strigoi was covered in the scars he’d acquired in life, before Vorag had turned him. Of all the Strigoi not under W’soran’s thumb, he was one of the closest to understanding how to manipulate the winds of death, thanks to the efforts of Zoar. W’soran pretended not to know, as such a liaison had provided him with more useful information than a host of spies. Despite that, and despite the fact that Sanzak looked like the losing end of a fight, W’soran recognised the scarred brute’s cunning. Even without Zoar’s influence, he had, in his centuries, begun to study things which did not concern him. And, most distressingly, to teach others, which meant he was dangerous.

‘Dead,’ Stregga said, responding before W’soran could.

Vorag’s eyes swivelled to W’soran. ‘How did he die?’

‘The skaven were accompanied by a sorcerer.’ W’soran gestured to the ruptured and still-smoking war machine with his scimitar. ‘I dealt with it when he proved himself inadequate to the task.’

The other Strigoi bristled visibly. Vorag merely grunted. ‘I seem to lose more of my followers that way. Were they all inadequate, then?’

‘I make no judgements,’ W’soran said.

Stregga gave a sharp laugh. W’soran glared at her. Vorag raised a talon, silencing them. As the battle-fury faded, Vorag became more human looking. W’soran watched the change with interest. He had long theorised that the bestial nature of the Strigoi was as much the result of their close proximity to Nagash’s crown as it was to their inexplicable love of the foul-tasting blood of ghouls. A little less of Vorag the man returned after each battle, a little more of the beast remained.

‘Dead is dead,’ Vorag grunted. ‘The rats are beaten. We have driven them into the depths.’

‘They are not beaten,’ W’soran said, peering about him at the thousand and one holes and shafts that decorated the walls and floor of the cavern. ‘They are merely taking stock of their situation.’

‘And how would you know that?’ Sanzak barked.

‘I have fought them before, as you well know,’ W’soran said. ‘There are millions of them, scurrying in these walls, watching us even now. We will have to uproot this mountain and tear it inside out to fully cleanse it.’

‘And why would we want to bother?’ Stregga asked, reaching out to tear a strip from Zoar’s robe. The vampire frowned, but fell silent at W’soran’s look. Stregga cleaned her blade with the already-filthy cloth and tossed it aside with a grimace of disgust. ‘There is nothing for us here, my love.’ She directed the latter at Vorag, who was studying the remains of the war-engine, seemingly taking no notice of the discussion going on around him.

‘Nothing but a ready-built fortress, should we choose to capitalise on it,’ W’soran said mildly.

‘There is a fortress waiting for us to the north,’ Stregga said.

‘Ah, yes, so you say,’ W’soran spat, ‘but we have yet to hear from your mistress. For all we know, she’s failed, and the Silver Pinnacle has resisted Ushoran’s attempt to annex it. Or perhaps she’s chosen to embrace her new life of servitude, and decided against her mad plan of convincing Ushoran to take the hold.’ He leered at Stregga and spread his hands. ‘Or maybe she’s dead, her head decorating a spike in the halls of the dwarfs, eh?’

‘You shut your filthy mouth,’ Stregga growled, lifting her sword.

‘Quiet,’ Vorag rumbled. He turned, glaring at them both. ‘What is that machine, sorcerer?’

‘A skaven weapon,’ W’soran said. ‘They are a clever species.’ He looked at Vorag, gauging his mood. ‘There are likely more such, far below.’

‘What does it do?’

‘It fires lightning,’ W’soran said.

‘Lightning,’ Vorag repeated. His face scrunched up in an expression of consideration. ‘Such a weapon would prove useful, in the coming war.’

‘Indeed it would, most puissant lord,’ Zoar said, sidling towards Vorag. ‘And my master is just the man to learn the secrets of these engines for you, oh wise Vorag.’ W’soran hid his smile. He had placed Zoar close to Vorag in order to counteract Stregga’s whispers. Zoar’s ingratiating manner and practiced unctuousness appealed to Vorag.

‘We do not need such things,’ Stregga said. Several of the Strigoi growled in agreement.

Vorag turned. ‘What we need and do not need is not for you to say, she-wolf,’ he snarled, the sound ripping through the cavern. Stregga didn’t flinch. Vorag’s molten gaze fell on W’soran. ‘How long would you require, sorcerer?’

‘Several months, at least,’ W’soran said, sheathing his scimitar. ‘I will need a working one, of course. We’ll have to delve deeper into the ratkin warrens.’

‘Which means we will need to fortify this place,’ Vorag said, looking around. ‘We shall need a citadel with which to push against our foes. A bulwark against attack…’ Even as he said it, W’soran knew that the Bloodytooth wasn’t talking just about the skaven. Vorag was frightened. There was a shadow growing in the north, and even simple brutes like Vorag could see it. It was a shadow that W’soran had helped to unleash. And that, given enough time, he thought he could control.

The only question was whether it would consume him before he got that chance.

Nagashizzar

(Year -1168 Imperial Calendar)

‘How dare you,’ W’soran snarled, fangs exposed and claws extended. ‘What are you doing in here, liche?’ The chambers were in shambles, scrolls and papyri scattered about the stone floor and the bodies of his apprentices amongst them. Most lived; one, at least, was dead, his torso a smoking ruin. That one would not be punished for his failure to stop the intruder, but the others… ‘Answer me,’ W’soran snapped. ‘What are you doing in here?’

‘Whatever I like,’ Arkhan the Black said, turning. His voice was a hollow rasp, and it seemed to echo in W’soran’s mind rather than in his ears. In one bony hand, he held the throat of the strongest of W’soran’s apprentices, Zoar. The barbarian still struggled, albeit feebly, his claws scoring the bone of Arkhan’s fingers. ‘These were my chambers, after all.’

‘You weren’t using them,’ W’soran said. ‘Release my property.’ He had claimed the chambers soon after arriving in Nagashizzar, several decades before. Nagashizzar had once rung with the sounds of living men, hundreds of them, if not thousands; whole tribes and clans of the savage barbarians from the eastern marshes. Now, it was eerily silent, save for the scrape of bone on metal. Only the dead resided in the mountain fortress of the Undying King now, and of the dead, only a few dozen were self-aware enough to interact to any great degree. Most were wights, or liches like Arkhan; the corridors rang with the sounds of the internal battles that served to occupy their time when they were not about Nagash’s business. W’soran had won his chambers in one such struggle, early after his arrival. His powers had grown by leaps and bounds under Nagash’s tutelage, even as his blind devotion to the being he had seen as a god began to dim.