Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘They’ve been skittering through those tunnels for months now, sniffing for the stores of abn-i-khat they left. Even a single shard would be enough to impel them to attack. With the guards gone, they’ll jump at the opportunity for mischief. And Vorag won’t be able to resist such a direct assault on his “kingdom”,’ W’soran said. ‘And when he moves to counter them, we will have an opportunity of our own to seize.’

‘The deep warrens, you mean,’ Melkhior said. He smiled nastily. ‘I know you, master. And I know that this isn’t just about getting rid of those interfering creatures of Neferata’s, is it?’

W’soran eyed Melkhior for a long moment before he chuckled. ‘You’ve always been something of a disappointment to me, Melkhior. Up until this moment, at any rate… yes, there are obvious goals and subtle ones. I’ve learned quite a bit from Iskar. The mad little rat has finally begun talking, and what stories he weaves. I thought the skaven were a localised phenomenon, but according to him, they lurk everywhere, under every mountain and molehill. Most importantly, there is more to this mountain than what we have found. A whole secondary fortress beneath the fortress we took. With armouries, breeding pens and workshops of filthy creation, all for the taking, if we are quick enough and cunning enough to do it.’ He rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘There is more to this citadel than those dullards the Strigoi know, and it will all be mine.’

‘And how do you intend to escape Neferata’s vengeance, in the interim?’ Melkhior asked.

W’soran glanced at him. ‘With a citadel and an army, I will have little need of “escape”, Melkhior,’ he said. He leaned over the crag, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘In truth, the story I have spun for Sanzak is just that — a story. A deception, Melkhior, for Neferata is, at best, merely an obstacle. She is not a threat to us, not in the same way that Ushoran is. Oh yes, she is scheming even now to forge us — forge Vorag, I should say — into a blade to drive into Ushoran’s heart. This is because, despite all that I taught her in lost Lahmia, she lacks the ability to grasp what is truly at stake here, and what sort of war is being waged.’

He tapped his head. ‘She thinks like a queen still, and thinks that this is a war of kings and queens and thrones. Like Vorag, her strategies revolve around passes and supply lines, territory… material things. Oh, but Ushoran knows now, even as I know, that this is not a war of men, but of magicians. Men, and their valour and their greed, are incidental. The throne is incidental. Empires are but the dust beneath our feet. Neferata does not see that. She is not our enemy, Melkhior. She is but a tool, like Vorag and Abhorash and all of the others — pieces in the game Ushoran and I are playing.’

‘I’d wager she thinks the same of you,’ Melkhior said.

W’soran smiled. ‘I’m certain she does. She’s wrong; but then, given her history, that’s not surprising.’ He chuckled. ‘It serves my purposes to build her as an enemy in Sanzak’s eyes. And, should he survive, in Vorag’s. It keeps them from seeing the true game, and gives them an enemy equal to their understanding. And, well, if I did not strike at her, she would become suspicious. And we can’t have that. So, I will take her pieces, and counter her puling attempt to bully her way into mine and Ushoran’s game, and keep her busy striking at shadows, even as I did in Mourkain. And, when she finds Vorag’s forces nowhere to be seen, she’ll realise that she’s overextended her hand and she’ll retreat.

‘And Ushoran… Ushoran will pursue and pull her pathetic little mountain down around her ears. If we’re lucky, she’ll come running to us for sanctuary, grovelling on her belly as she always should have done, seeking the favour of her betters.’ He snapped his fangs for emphasis. ‘Stupid preening cow, always so assured of her own righteousness, of her own intelligence. It was she who ruined it, you know… all of it. She mooned after that lout Alcadizzar instead of ringing the cities of the Great Land in fire and steel and squeezing them until they wept blood. It was she who ruined Lamashizzar’s plans to tease the secrets of immortality out of that fool, Arkhan.

‘And if she had allowed me to make an offer of alliance to Nagash early on, Lahmia might yet stand — the City of the Dawn, reborn as the City of Eternal Night, where an ageless aristocracy ruled the dead sands forevermore!’

‘And where were you while she was doing all of this, master?’ Melkhior asked, after a moment of silence.

W’soran didn’t reply. Where indeed? He had been in a jar, with a splinter in his heart and only the spiders for company. He stared out over the mountains. To the north and east, he could see the flickering blacker-than-black aura that crossed the dark sky like a ribbon. He felt a distinct tug on his mind, like hooks settling gently into the meat of it, and hissed in irritation. ‘Fool,’ he said softly, then, almost sadly, ‘you foolish, foolish man.’

He had never had friends, either as a child or as a man grown, for such petty social concerns had always been beneath him. But if he had indulged, Ushoran would have been one. W’soran looked at his withered hands. It had been Ushoran who had, all those many long years ago, helped him escape Mahrak. It had been Ushoran who had brought him into the conspiracy and then, after Neferata’s murderous attack, back out of the darkness.

Ushoran had feared him, and had hated him, had kept him around only because he was useful, but nonetheless… there it was. For no matter how W’soran twisted and schemed, only Ushoran had never lost patience, or decided to do away with him. Only Ushoran had seen his potential, had seen him for the power he truly was. Even Nagash had denigrated and underestimated him.

Only Ushoran had ever cared enough to truly fear W’soran for his capabilities, rather than his looks or his proclivities. That was why he was the only one worth playing against. Fear bred respect, after all. Neferata was nothing, and Abhorash even less than that. They were primitives, besotted by blood and unheeding of the true currents of power. But when Ushoran’s fear had been driven from him by the power of the twisted iron crown that now ensnared him, W’soran had run. He’d done as he’d always done, scuttled for the shadows, his tail between his legs. He’d left Mourkain and Ushoran.

But then flight had ever been his first choice, even as a boy in Mahrak. In flight, there was no risk, only gain. To fight was to risk pain, or death. But to flee was to live, to borrow a bit more time from inevitability. That was why he had sought immortality. He knew well enough now how fragile it was, but at the time it had seemed the ultimate escape. But in fleeing Mourkain, he had sacrificed much.

He closed his fingers, letting the tips of his talons pierce his flesh. When he’d sent Neferata to Nagashizzar, he’d half-hoped she would fail. That she would fail and die; that if the skaven failed to kill her the dead of Nehekhara would have succeeded. But she had won through, and brought back those resources he’d requested. Another shadow-chase he’d sent her on that she’d preened at seeing through, as if she had actually accomplished something.

He hadn’t truly needed the book. He could have drawn Alcadizzar’s spirit from the stones of Mourkain at any time, and bound it once more to its tattered flesh for Ushoran to maul to his heart’s content. But he’d hoped to distract Ushoran from his growing obsession. Even now, he couldn’t say whether that attempt had been for his own ends, or out of some misguided attempt to protect the only creature he had even the smallest shred of affinity for.