Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘We should return to the main cavern, Stregga,’ Khemalla said, loudly. Like her sister-in-darkness, she was clad in armour, and carried one of the heavy, cleaver-like blades that the Strigoi favoured. ‘We’ve stymied this flanking effort, but Vorag could still be overwhelmed.’

‘I doubt we’ve stymied anything,’ W’soran said, speaking over the assenting grunts of the Strigoi. ‘There’ll be more of the ratkin coming. These were only meant to establish a strongpoint.’

It hadn’t taken much in the way of cunning to ensure that the Lahmians — as they insisted on referring to themselves, much to W’soran’s annoyance — had stuck to him. He had no doubt that they were planning to play witness to his end, even as he plotted to do the same. The cramped, dark tunnels were the perfect murder-ground. In the confusion of battle, a ready blade could slide into an unaware back with little difficulty.

He’d left Melkhior and Zoar with Vorag, to help him hold the skaven in the central chamber. His remaining apprentices guarded his laboratories and the repurposed skaven workshop, slaughtering any skaven foolish enough to attack and then animating them and sending them back into the tunnels to kill their living companions. He himself had volunteered to lead the flanking effort, knowing that the Lahmians would insist on accompanying him.

‘What do you know of war, leech?’ one of the Strigoi growled. He was a burly creature named Faethor and he belonged to the Lahmian called Layla. Even amidst the current conflict, Faethor had been accosting any Strigoi who stood against declaring open war on Ushoran and marching into the eastern reaches and challenging them to duels. Many fangs hung from a rawhide thong about his neck, attesting to his success in that regard.

‘Oh, is it my turn then, Faethor?’ W’soran said. ‘Is it time for you to deprive Vorag of yet another strong arm for your pale lady?’

‘Careful with those barbed words, old monster,’ Layla said, as she stepped from behind Faethor. ‘The Strigoi are a warrior-people, and they may take your insults and accusations more seriously than you intend.’

‘My accusations were serious enough,’ W’soran said. ‘Though I doubt even Faethor is foolish enough to challenge a withered old thing like myself amidst a battle…’ He grinned at the Strigoi. Faethor purpled, the skaven blood he’d glutted on flushing through his pale skin.

Before he could respond, however, the sound of pattering feet and squealing filled the air. Part of the corridor wall crumbled suddenly, unleashing a flood of rag-wrapped skaven tunnellers, wielding short, heavy blades and long knives. The skaven crashed into the skeletons, shattering them before they could react. Faethor and Layla spun about, striking out at the ratkin. One, clad in a strange mask complete with heavy goggles and bulbous tubes, bounced beneath a sword-blow from a Strigoi and flung a heavy globe of some viscous liquid towards W’soran.

W’soran reacted swiftly. He lashed out with his sword, striking the globe in mid-air. A foul-smelling gas billowed from its shattered remnants and W’soran hissed, tasting abn-i-khat. The masked skaven hurled two more globes before Khemalla reached him and brought her sword down on his skull, splitting it from crown to neck. More gas exploded out, rapidly filling the corridor. The surviving skaven had retreated as quickly as they had come, slithering back through the hole they had made.

‘What is this foulness?’ Stregga snarled, swiping her sword through the gas.

‘Poisonous gas,’ W’soran said. ‘If we breathed, we’d be dead. I don’t think they’ve quite figured out what we are just yet.’

‘Small favours,’ Khemalla grunted. Then, she screamed as a spear-point burst through her shoulder and sent her stumbling forward. W’soran and the others turned as more skaven burst through the gas clogging the corridor. The tunnel-attack had been a diversion, meant to allow the newcomers to get close. All of the ratkin had masks similar to that worn by the slain globadier welded to their flat, skull-fitted helms. These were not the brown-furred common vermin who normally led such attacks, but the heavier, black-furred variety. Clad in thick armour, the skaven charged relentlessly forward, spears thrusting out.

Stregga stooped to haul Khemalla out of the path of the advancing vermin, and W’soran was tempted to strike her then and there. But there were too many witnesses, and even if he’d succeeded, he’d have still had to fight his way free of the tunnel. ‘Fall back,’ he shrieked, ‘fall back! Let the dead earn their keep!’

‘Coward,’ Layla spat, even as she and Faethor followed him back into the ranks of skeletons.

‘But in one piece, which is the important bit,’ W’soran said. The Strigoi were following his example, melting back through the lines of the dead, even as the front rank of skeletons raised their shields and lowered their spears. ‘A shame you left your wights with Vorag,’ he said. ‘We could have used them.’

‘They’ll serve us better keeping the Bloodytooth alive,’ Stregga said, holding Khemalla upright. ‘At least until we can get back to him. Can your bone-bags hold them, sorcerer?’ She looked at W’soran, who shrugged.

‘It depends on whether they’re planning any other tricks,’ he said, even as he knew full well such would be the case. The skaven had begun launching attacks similar to the one that had nearly seen him permanently entombed several years previously. They caught the undead forces by surprise and dropped the weight of a tunnel on them. There was more than one Strigoi still trapped in those collapsed corridors, screaming into the silent dark.

The plan was childishly easy to discern, if you knew, as W’soran did, how the ratkin thought. Collapsing the tunnels choked off the avenues and approaches to the central cavern, forcing the Strigoi to retreat and reform their lines. The skaven, however, were burrowers without peer, and used tools and simple brute force to dig twenty new tunnels for every one they destroyed. The Strigoi, on the defensive, had no time to do the same, even if such labour had been their inclination. There was only one tunnel remaining now, the one they occupied. Once it fell, and reinforcements were cut off from the main cavern, the skaven would make their final assault.

While the thought of being caught in such a collapse again caused him no end of discomfort, there was no other way to achieve his ends without making an enemy of Vorag. The Lahmians had to die, and it was best if it seemed as if the skaven were responsible. He touched the top of his cuirass, where the fraying cords of the abn-i-khat amulets he wore were bunched, for reassurance. When their flanking effort failed, the skaven would likely launch their attack. And, if his luck held, he would be in the perfect position to play the hero.

The first line of the skaven crashed against the skeletons and W’soran gestured, pulling tight on the skeins of death-magic that animated the ancient bones. The skeletons wavered and the skaven took advantage, smashing them aside with victorious squeals. W’soran looked up, and saw the tell-tale cracks forming in the ceiling and walls. The corridor shuddered slightly. None of the Strigoi seemed to have noticed yet. It was a pity that so many would have to be sacrificed, but W’soran took the long view, and besides, what need had he of preening bully boys?

Despite having the advantage, the skaven began to retreat, backing away up the tunnel. Faethor gave a bellow of triumph. ‘They run! At them, wolves of Strigos,’ he roared, lunging through the ragged ranks of the dead, even as W’soran had hoped. With the others occupied, he could ensure that Neferata’s pets met their well-deserved fate. The Strigoi gave tongue to the war-howls of their people and loped free of the thicket of bones.