Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

The table settled at a steep angle and the orc bellowed in pain as his centre of gravity descended, and his weight pulled on the heavy iron spikes that had been driven through his meaty wrists and ankles to hold him in place. Another chain had been looped beneath the orc’s neck and as the beast slumped, the chain caught tight around its neck. It gagged and its piggy eyes bulged in mingled pain and hatred as it glared at its tormentor. Fresh, brackish blood oozed from around the spikes and the creature shuddered.

W’soran watched it twitch and writhe. Then, with the air of a gourmand , he reached below the orc’s ribcage and pulled something out. ‘Redundancies of redundancies,’ he murmured. He glanced over at the crouched shape of one of his apprentices. The vampire was robed and cowled, and only its clawed digits were visible as it scratched out notes on a roll of parchment with a pen made from a fingerbone. ‘Its heart and lungs show variation from human or skaven organs. Rudimentary, but still significant,’ W’soran said, more loudly. Dutifully, the apprentice scratched out his master’s observations.

Idly, W’soran took a bite of the lump of meat he held. He chewed slowly, sucking the blood from it. For all that it tasted foul, he’d found the blood of the greenskins to be a potent stimulant. He tossed the nearly-drained hunk of meat to the closest of the ghouls, which snapped it out of the air like a starving dog. Each of the ghouls was covered in jagged branding marks as well the pale weals of old incisions.

The orc groaned and its prognathous jaw gaped, showing off its splintered tusks. Crude blue tattoos covered its flesh and its musculature was overdeveloped to the point of ridiculousness. W’soran watched its powerful heart thud inside its cage of bone. Its heartrate wasn’t slowing, despite the partial vivisection.

W’soran sniffed and leaned close to one of its brawny arms. With a flick of his talons, he sliced open its flesh and slid the quivering green hide back from muscle fibre and bone. ‘Increased muscle strength,’ he said. He hooked a section of its bicep muscle and gave it an experimental tug, eliciting a shriek from the orc. ‘The muscle roots are anchored far more firmly than in men or skaven. And the limbs continue to function well after separation from the rest of the body.’ He jerked the muscles free of the arm and the orc arched its back. Its skull drummed on the table and froth gushed from its mouth.

W’soran paid no heed to its writhing. He peeled back the layers of the muscle as if it were a fruit, his good eye narrowing. ‘Hnf, it’s attempting to repair itself. Intriguing,’ he muttered. His eyes flickered to the side, where a heavy cage hung from the ceiling. ‘What do you think, Iskar?’

The huddled shape inside didn’t move. W’soran frowned. He gestured sharply and the sigils that crowded the heavy brass collar on the skaven’s neck flared with an eerie light. Iskar shrieked and uncoiled like a spring.

The skaven looked the worse for wear from its years of captivity; its once white fur, what remained of it, was dingy, yellow and matted with filth. Burn scars covered its hairless skull and most of its body. It was completely blind, its eyes the colour of fish-bellies. W’soran had kept it alive out of curiosity. He had been intrigued to learn of the sturdy malleability of the species. Skin grafts from dead skaven and goblins had repaired most of the damage that W’soran’s flames had done to the creature in their battle, and he felt, given the proper raw materials, he could repair the creature’s eyes. Of course, it was more amusing to leave the beast blind and helpless.

Iskar hissed in his general direction, exposing blackened gums and brown teeth. ‘Kill you,’ it tittered. ‘Kill you.’

‘Yes, yes,’ W’soran said, prodding the cage. Iskar huddled back, whimpering. ‘After two years of those same two words I’m beginning to wonder if I actually managed to repair your voice box or not. Remind me why I keep you alive, rat.’

Iskar’s nostrils flared and its lips writhed back from its fangs. The blistered tail lashed and it made a sound like a giggle. W’soran shook his head, disgusted. He wondered if perhaps he had gotten everything out of the beast that there was to get. With a sniff, he turned back to his current study.

With a roar, the orc wrenched its good arm free of the spike that had pinned it and flung out a hand, clawing for W’soran’s throat. A blade flashed, cutting through the heavy clouds of incense before chopping into the orc’s forearm. The brute yowled as the blade was wrenched free and then sent slicing into its skull with a sound like a melon being dropped.

Melkhior jerked his blade free and examined it critically. ‘Damnable brutes are too tough by half,’ he growled. He looked at W’soran. ‘You should pay more attention to what’s going on around you, master.’

‘Why would I bother? That’s what you’re for, Melkhior,’ W’soran said. He tossed the chunk of muscle to the still furiously scribbling apprentice. ‘Collect muscle tissue from the remaining specimens and let it soak. We’ll begin crafting our newest warriors tomorrow,’ he said. He turned to Melkhior. ‘Come to help, or to ask for it yourself, my son?’

‘What are you planning?’ Melkhior asked, avoiding the question.

‘Orc muscle combined with goblin frame and skaven flesh and hide — small, sturdy and less prone to rot. Perfect scouts for the depths and high reaches,’ W’soran said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. ‘They’ll hold together for months before they begin to degrade; longer if they’re properly preserved.’

‘Why not simply resurrect more skaven?’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ W’soran said. He patted Melkhior’s cheek. The other vampire flinched and W’soran chuckled. ‘Death is not the end, my son. And we must learn to husband our meagre resources in these harsh climes. To improve upon base creation and make something glorious here, in our citadel.’

‘It might not be our citadel for much longer,’ Melkhior said.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Neferata… has sent word. From the north,’ Melkhior said. ‘She has succeeded. The Silver Pinnacle is hers, and the army Ushoran sent with her — what’s left of it — is hers as well. Two Lahmians arrived not an hour ago.’ His gaze turned accusing. ‘They bypassed your defences.’

W’soran grunted. ‘That is… unfortunate. What about Vorag?’

‘They are with him now. He is holding a council.’

W’soran frowned. ‘Why was I not informed?’

‘Why do you think?’ Melkhior snapped. W’soran caught him by the throat even as the words left his mouth and hefted him. The ancient vampire stepped towards the cages, propelling Melkhior back against them. Orcs howled with glee as they grabbed at Melkhior, tearing his robes and gouging his flesh. He spat and snarled, but couldn’t free himself from W’soran’s grip.

‘Watch your tone, my apprentice. You are not irreplaceable,’ W’soran said, with deadly mildness. He stepped back and let Melkhior drop. The younger vampire rubbed his throat and stooped to scoop up his sword. W’soran said, ‘Why wasn’t I called to the council?’

‘Stregga,’ Melkhior spat. ‘She has Vorag wrapped around her finger. It’s all Zoar or I can do to counter her machinations, while you’ve been holed up down here.’

W’soran glared at him. ‘What good are you if you cannot outthink a blood-addled fishwife?’

Melkhior hissed, but looked away. W’soran shook his head. He ran a hand over his leathery pate. His words to the contrary, he wasn’t surprised. Melkhior had all the subtlety of a starving wolf and Zoar, while cunning, had never been the most independent thinker. Lupa Stregga seemed like little more than a feral blood doxy at first glance, but he’d grown familiar with how her mind worked. She possessed a peasant’s cunning and a ruthlessness that he could almost admire.