Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

Even as his fangs sank into the soft stone, his body shuddered. He felt as if he had bitten into a lightning bolt, as if he were burning up from within. Swallowing the small chunks of stone, he flung out his hands and spat words of power. Dark magic coursed through him, and he felt it more strongly than ever before. A sorcerous blast struck the rocks and the rough stone bubbled and slopped like mud. W’soran scuttled forward, unleashing blast after blast, carving a path to freedom. The remaining amulets grew warmer, and he was tempted to eat another, but resisted the urge.

He continued forward for what felt like minutes, but might have been hours. The abn-i-khat pulsed in his long-dried veins, and his mind felt as if it were full of quicksilver; his thoughts rattled in his head like hornets trapped in a flask. Part of him wondered if this was how Nagash had seen the world. It was as if everything was moving in slow motion. He could see motes of dust drifting past him, and the sparks that made up the flames that spread from his hands. He could see what was to come and how to make it so with searing clarity, and he laughed as he cut his way through the bowels of the mountain.

Then, one final wall exploded outward and, wreathed in the smoke of his passage, W’soran stepped through, into a massive cavern. A hundred pairs of glittering eyes stared at him in shock. There were skaven everywhere and they all froze. He smelled their fear and smiled.

The cavern was larger than any yet encountered, and full to bursting with the stuff of construction. It reminded W’soran of the ancient ruins of the dwarfen workshops he’d discovered high in the mountains. It was lit, as with the rest of the mountain, by great braziers and censers exuded foul-smelling smoke. Rats scurried underfoot. Baskets full of abn-i-khat were everywhere. Great chains hung from the roof and half-built war-engines occupied most of the cavern floor. The skaven appeared to have been caught in the process of dismantling the engines for transport.

Suddenly, the determined holding action made sense. The skaven were trying to get their creations out of the reach of their enemies. W’soran could almost admire their persistence in defending the objects of their artifice. He held up a hand wreathed in black flame. The skaven tensed, watching him like vermin caught in sudden torchlight. He savoured the fear-stink rising from them.

‘Run,’ he hissed, ‘or die, it makes no difference to me.’ His voice carried to every corner of the cavern.

The skaven ran. W’soran laughed and killed those too slow to get out of his reach as quickly as their fellows. His magic speared out, killing them in droves. Skaven ran burning and screaming. The cavern was filled with the stink of cooking rat as W’soran stalked towards the contraptions, intent on claiming them for his own. As he strode, his thoughts uncoiled and slithered ahead and around him, latching onto the guttering life-sparks of dying skaven. With a mental jerk, he pulled the dead to their paws and set them scrabbling after their fellows. In an orgy of mindless hunger, the dead fell upon the living and the cavern echoed with the sounds of slaughter.

Abruptly, the euphoria he’d felt was replaced by a gnawing pain. For a moment, the world skidded around him, out of sync and blurry as his stomach lurched and the bile in his veins became turgid and weighty, dragging his limbs down, causing him to stumble. With a moan, W’soran staggered against one of the war-engines as a cold shudder ran through him. He felt like a punctured waterskin, leaking and deflating all at once. The temporary burst of energy the abn-i-khat had given him was leaving him. Bubbling pus leaked from his wounds and pores as his body expelled the last traces of the stone he’d eaten. He felt weak and wrung out. He shook his head and shoved himself to his feet.

A moment later, the blade of a spear cut through the spot where his head had been. The blade gashed his shoulder and threw him backwards. The wound burned and he saw that the blade of the weapon that had cut him was crafted from pure wyrdstone. Hissing, he pulled himself up into a crouch, one hand pressed to his injury.

A skaven crouched on the war machine, clutching the spear in its heavy gauntlets. Serrated black armour covered dirty robes, and its fur was a pure white where it peeked out through both armour and cloth. A heavy helm hid its head, and its eyes glowed green through the eye-slits. He wondered, as he examined it, if this were one of the so-called ‘warlocks’ the few captives he’d taken over the past months had spoken of.

The skaven pulled back the spear and spat his earlier bravado back in his face, ‘Run-run or die-die, man-thing. It makes no difference to Iskar of Skryre.’

W’soran rose. He’d taught himself the rudiments of the rat-things’ language, with the unwilling help of the captives they’d taken in the campaign so far. He’d always had a facility for tongues, even ones as animalistic as that of the skaven. ‘There’s always a third option, vermin. I kill you and wring the blood from your furry carcass.’ He snapped his fangs together. His keen ears caught a new sound above the cacophony of the battle going on in the cavern. Weapons clashed somewhere, followed by a roar that might have been Vorag. W’soran chuckled. ‘You’re out of time.’

‘There is always time,’ the skaven snarled. It sprang from its perch, wielding its weapon with skill. Only W’soran’s speed saved him from being gutted and he backed away from the stabbing blade. The skaven pressed forward, seeking to impale him.

He loosed a sorcerous bolt, hoping to catch the creature unawares, but it simply raised its weapon and caught the spell on the blade. The bolt evaporated, and the glow in the skaven’s eyes seemed to grow brighter. ‘Weak man-thing,’ it chattered. ‘I see-see your weakness.’ It tapped the side of its helm with a talon.

‘Silence, beast,’ W’soran said. More magics flew from his gesticulating hands. The skaven’s blade swiped out, cutting through his spells as if they were nothing more than an evening fog. The creature loped forward, its tail lashing.

W’soran staggered back and tripped over a corpse, toppling backwards. The white-furred skaven darted forward with a high-pitched cry of triumph. W’soran’s palms slammed together on either side of the blade, trapping it. The skaven planted its paws on his chest and put all of its weight on the spear, trying to force the blade into his skull. W’soran grimaced and resisted. Slowly he sat up, and the skaven was shoved back. For the first time, he saw fear in its eyes.

With a growl, W’soran pressed his palms together. The wyrdstone blade shattered in his grip. The skaven stumbled back. It opened its mouth, as if to scream.

W’soran gave it no chance to do so. He let loose a final spell, and a corona of heat engulfed the creature. Without its blade, it had no way of dispersing his magics and it stiffened as its fur shrivelled, its robes caught fire and its armour melted to its quivering frame. It fell backwards with a loud clank, smoke and steam rising from its body.

He rose and squatted beside it. It still lived, albeit not for long, unless something was done. Almost gently, he pried the helmet from its head, causing it to thrash in agony. Ignoring its squeals of pain, he examined the helm. ‘Ingenious,’ he muttered, tapping the green lenses.

The cavern was silent now. The survivors of his attack had either fled or joined the ranks of the dead things that stood still and stiff, waiting for his next command. The sounds of fighting were growing louder. After the explosion, the Strigoi must have continued to press forward. Vorag wouldn’t let the loss of his army stop him. W’soran laughed, imagining the expression on Stregga’s face when she saw him waiting for them.