Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘Death is not the end,’ he murmured. His words were lost in the rushing wind. Below him, a galley made furiously for the mouth of a river. W’soran smiled. ‘Well, not for all of us,’ he added. He bent low in his saddle and hauled sharply on the reins. The giant bat folded its wings and plummeted towards the galley with another shriek.

The craft was Nehekharan in origin, though it had been much patched and repaired since it had first set sail from the City of the Dawn. Saurian hide patches marked its hull and Cathayan sails billowed from an Ind-style mast. Its crew were men, despite the nature of its master. Then again, he had never been entirely comfortable with the dead.

In the months following Ushoran’s capture, W’soran had sent out spies and searchers, hunting for word of the rest of the Lahmian Court. Word of Abhorash had been sparse, and Neferata seemed to have disappeared entirely. W’soran held out hope that she had died in the fall of Lahmia, but knew better than to do more than hope. Neferata had a habit of surviving the best laid plans of others.

Of all the former members of the inner circle, only Ankhat had been easy to locate. In the years since Alcadizzar’s destruction of the City of Dawn, Ankhat had not remained hidden. Indeed, he had discarded subtlety entirely. In Cathay, he had claimed to be an immortal sorcerer-prince, and he had led the Dragon-Emperor’s armies in hurling back an invasion from the north that had attempted to breach the Great Bastion.

Soon after, his nocturnal feedings had apparently been uncovered by a secretive society of courtesans and Ankhat had been exposed. A fighting retreat had left the Port of Dogs in flames and Ankhat’s forces reduced to a few vessels and some hundred men. He had prowled the oceans, raiding and hiring out his services to various coastal lords and masters, including the petty chieftains of the icy north. Freed of the responsibilities of royalty, Ankhat had apparently taken to the life of a freebooter. Being a sea-borne thief suited him, W’soran thought.

The crew reacted to the appearance of the bat much as W’soran had expected. Arrows cut through the air, striking the dead beast. W’soran laughed. The bat landed on the prow with a heavy, wood-splintering thump, its wings folding up and its claws crushing the rail. W’soran stood in his saddle and gestured, sweeping the life from the closest men with a single spell. ‘Come out, come out wherever you are, Ankhat,’ he called out. ‘I have a proposition for you, oh mighty lord of Lahmia.’

The door to the cabin’s quarters was flung open and a lean shape clad in light armour and a dark cloak stepped out. Ankhat had not changed much since the fall of Lahmia, W’soran noted. He still had the same arrogant bearing and supercilious expression on his face that W’soran remembered. His hair had gone white, but he was still darkly handsome and of noble position.

‘W’soran,’ he said, his hand fondling the pommel of the heavy eastern blade that hung at his side. ‘If there was one face I had hoped to go without seeing for the rest of eternity, yours would be it.’

‘I’m flattered,’ W’soran said, leaning over the pommel of his saddle. He motioned to the galley. ‘You have been on quite a trip, it seems. I have tracked you from the Port of Dogs to the Bay of Pirates. It’s almost as if you’re running from something, Ankhat. Whatever could that be, hmmm?’

‘You know damn well what I’m fleeing,’ Ankhat snapped. He pointed at W’soran. ‘After all, you clutch at its skirts and bony ankles like a trained ape.’

Stung, W’soran exposed his fangs. ‘Watch your tongue, Ankhat, or I’ll tear it from your head.’

‘Come and try it,’ Ankhat spat. Then, without warning, he shouted an incantation and night-black fire roared from his out-thrust hand. It crashed across the mast and caught the giant bat full in the face and chest. The creature hopped back with a squeal as flames crisped its dry, dead hair. W’soran cursed and slashed out a hand, summoning an icy wind to put out the flames.

Ankhat grinned at him and spread his arms. ‘I always wondered where you’d gotten to, in the end. You left behind a library of scrolls and tomes, you know. Then, maybe you thought Alcadizzar had burnt them, eh?’ Ankhat folded his arms. ‘So many interesting scrolls… so much knowledge, for a man smart enough to see it.’

‘You never struck me as smart,’ W’soran said. ‘So, you’ve pillaged my old library and think yourself now a match for me? Is that it, Ankhat?’

‘Enough of a match to give you a fight,’ Ankhat sneered. ‘But I’d rather not, if I don’t have to. I can only think of one reason for you to hunt me down, W’soran, and the answer is no. I assure you that the others will answer in similar fashion, if you ever find them.’

Something about his tone caught W’soran’s attention. His eyes narrowed. ‘You know where they are, don’t you?’

‘Perhaps, but why should I tell you?’ Ankhat asked. He smiled smugly.

‘If you don’t, I’ll burn this galley to the waterline and take you back to Nagashizzar in chains, even as I did Ushoran,’ W’soran said.

The smile slipped from Ankhat’s face. ‘I’ll fight you,’ he said.

‘Why would you, when you could fight for the Undying King? Why whore your powers out for the petty tribal kings of these barbaric shores when you could serve a true power?’

‘If you have to ask why, you’ll never understand, W’soran,’ Ankhat said, exposing his fangs. ‘A trade, then. I’ll tell you what I know and you leave me be.’

W’soran frowned and sat back in his saddle. The bat stirred restively and he stroked its skull. In truth, Ankhat was hardly a catch — W’soran had always considered him a subpar general and subpar sorcerer. But, if he knew where the others were…

He sniffed. ‘Fine, then. If you wish to remain in these inhospitable climes, who am I to gainsay you? Where are they — Neferata and Abhorash? Tell me where the queen and her champion might be found…’

Crookback Mountain

(Year -322 Imperial Calendar)

When W’soran stepped out of the tunnel and onto the ledge of the crag, Sanzak was waiting for him, even as he’d promised. The Green Witch, the smaller of the two moons, hung full and ugly in the sky alongside its larger sister, and pale streaks cut across the darkness in the distance.

‘Wyrdstone,’ W’soran said, causing Sanzak to turn from his study of the heavens. ‘Those streaks are the tears of the Green Witch, which take the form of the abn-i-khat when they strike the earth.’

‘Interesting, but not why you asked to see me, I trust,’ the Strigoi said. W’soran examined his scarred features in the eerie light of the moons. Sanzak looked like a lump of raw meat with fangs, but his eyes sparked with a keen intelligence. Of all the Strigoi W’soran had met, he was the closest to Ushoran in terms of guile, though that cunning was tempered by an unfortunate propensity to unquestioning loyalty.

‘Knowledge is its own reward,’ W’soran said.

Sanzak snorted. ‘Then why are you so determined to garner other glories?’

‘Vorag’s plan is madness,’ W’soran said bluntly, ignoring the question. ‘It is madness and you know it.’

Sanzak crossed his heavily muscled arms and tilted his head. ‘And if it is? And I do? I will not be a party to betrayal, W’soran. Vorag is my friend and he is my lord. I will give my life for his before I let him come to harm.’

‘Fine sentiments, but would you risk losing everything we have built here, on a whim of Neferata’s?’ W’soran asked, pulling his robes more tightly about himself. Overhead, vast shapes slid through the skies, and faint shrieks drifted down. The great bats of the deep caverns were out and on the hunt.