Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

The warren had fallen silent. Even the echoes had faded. Vorag seemed to deflate. His features became more human, though his eyes remained as black as polished onyx. He tilted his head backwards and inhaled the smell of death emanating from the entrance to the warren. Then, with a faint smile, he looked at W’soran.

‘I am not a fool, sorcerer. I am not a beast. And I would make right what Ushoran — what you all — made wrong. He made me in his image, but I would have more. I would have an empire of men, not monsters.’ He dropped a heavy hand on W’soran’s shoulder. ‘And you will build it for me.’

W’soran smiled. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

Nagashizzar

(Year -1151 Imperial Calendar)

Alcadizzar screamed. Nagash held the last king of Khemri aloft in one hand and used the other to carve symbols of fell power into his bruised and tattered flesh. Arkhan and his fellow liches watched silently. Ushoran and W’soran stood off to the side, watching as well, but not quietly.

‘What is he doing?’ Ushoran hissed. ‘Is it just torture, or something else?’

‘His agony fuels the magic,’ W’soran said, watching enthralled. ‘He is using Alcadizzar’s life to craft a spell of death.’ Nagash’s skill for necromantic improvisation was unparalleled. Where W’soran had to study and experiment until his mind staggered beneath the weight of it all, Nagash seemed to simply wrestle the winds of magic into whatever shape he desired. He was all raw power, with neither nuance nor ritual to hinder him from simply forcing reality to bend to his terrible will.

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean “why”,’ W’soran whispered. ‘You know as well as I do what Nagash intends. And it will be beautiful.’ Even as he said it, the doubts, new and old, crowded at the forefront of his mind. Some he had come by himself, in his years in Nagashizzar. While he had once thought of Nagash as a god, in truth, the Undying King was something else. Just what he was, W’soran couldn’t say, but he was no god. He was no invisible master, speaking through oracles and dusty tomes, but a hard, cruel presence. What went on within that blackened skull no one could say, but Nagash at least thought as a man, and an exceedingly petty and spiteful one at that.

Why else would he have brought Alcadizzar before him, to gloat over him as he had done only moments earlier, before beginning his current ministrations? W’soran shook his head. ‘Beautiful,’ he said again. ‘The sands will give birth to generations of the dead… entire dynasties will bow before the Undying King and we will lead them to war against the men of Araby and Ind. We will bring order and peace to this world, Ushoran. And all for the glory of-’

‘Nagash,’ Ushoran said, softly. ‘Just Nagash.’

W’soran looked at him. Alcadizzar screamed again and writhed in Nagash’s unyielding grip as blood poured down his body to drip and collect in the stone runnels set in the floor. Ushoran watched and his eyes were like stones. Whether he was enjoying the king’s agonies or not was impossible to tell. His face might as well have been a mask. ‘Why do you call him the Undying King, when he is no kind of king at all?’ he asked, as if to himself. ‘Just because he wears a crown, that does not make him a king…’

W’soran grunted and glared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.

‘Nothing; it is a shame Neferata is missing this. I’m sure she’d have enjoyed seeing her old pet flayed by inches,’ Ushoran said.

‘Whose fault is that, then?’ W’soran asked quietly. ‘We should have beaten Abhorash and brought them both here in chains. Nagash would have thanked us. Instead, see — he honours Arkhan and those bags of bones. It is we who are his true servants — they are but tools.’

As if he’d heard them from across the throne room, Arkhan turned to look at them. The green glow in his gaze was gloating, and W’soran bristled. Ushoran didn’t react. He ignored Arkhan, and the liche returned the favour. Indeed, save W’soran, few took notice of Ushoran at all, least of all Nagash, though Ushoran had sought to curry favour at every opportunity.

‘Do you truly think she would have been content to serve, W’soran?’ Ushoran asked. He looked at the other vampire. ‘Are you?’

‘I — what about you, Ushoran, are you content?’ W’soran asked, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Neferata would have served. She would have had no choice.’

‘There are always choices,’ Ushoran said, turning back to watch Alcadizzar’s agonies. W’soran frowned and turned as well, and just in time — Alcadizzar gave a bull-bellow of pain and anger and flailed his way free of Nagash’s grip.

Emaciated as he was, broken and weak as he was, Alcadizzar was no coward. He sprang towards Arkhan and the other liches, and tore the black blade from the sheath on Arkhan’s hip even as he gave a desperate shove, knocking the liche back into his fellows. Blade in hand, Alcadizzar spun about and lunged for Nagash.

W’soran intercepted him, catching the downward stroke of the blade on the bracers of his crossed wrists. ‘You,’ Alcadizzar groaned, pallid face twisted in fear and loathing.

‘Me, little prince,’ W’soran said. ‘And this time, your women aren’t here to save your hide.’ He shoved Alcadizzar back, knocking him to the ground. W’soran made to pounce, when he felt the chill clutch of Nagash’s gauntlet on the back of his head. Fingers like iron hooks dug into the thin flesh and he was ripped into the air and flung casually aside, his howl of pain trailing after him.

‘NO! YOU WILL NOT KILL HIM, LITTLE LEECH,’ Nagash said. W’soran landed hard enough to crack the stones of the floor and he felt things break and burst within him. He had felt Nagash’s strength before, but never in such a way. He lay panting as Nagash hefted Alcadizzar once more, after divesting him of his weapon. ‘HE IS WORTH MORE TO ME THAN YOU. HIS BLOOD IS WORTH MORE TO ME THAN THAT OF A THOUSAND OF YOUR KIND.’

‘I simply sought to aid you…’ W’soran wheezed.

‘I HAVE NO NEED OF YOUR AID.’

Nagash turned back to his work. Arkhan scooped up his sword and looked down at W’soran. ‘On your feet, old monster… we’ll soon have an army to lead.’ The liche turned without waiting for a reply. W’soran staggered upright, clutching his healing ribs tightly. He looked around and saw Ushoran, still standing in the lee of one of the great columns that lined the throne room. Before he could say anything, the Lord of Masks turned and faded into the shadows…

The Badlands

(Year -300 Imperial Calendar)

W’soran gave vent to a howl of fury as he caught the arrow mere inches from his head. He snapped it in two and hurled the pieces aside. More arrows sailed through the deeply overcast sky, slicing through the falling snow to pierce the tattered mail of the marching dead that trudged towards the crude, but massive, palisade that blocked the mountain trail. ‘Tear it down,’ he snarled, batting aside another arrow with his scimitar. ‘Leave not one piece standing!’

The pace of the dead quickened as he let his anger fuel the incantation that sprang to his lips, invigorating them. They were almost running now, bones sheathed in frost and bronze moving with inhuman fluidity. The warriors on the palisade — living men, these, and soldiers of Strigos — cried out and redoubled their efforts. The compact horse-bows the Strigoi favoured thrummed as the rate of fire increased, and broad-headed arrows crashed home, knocking skeletons sprawling. The ones that reached the wall set up the heavy scaling ladders they carried. There was no telling how many would make it to the top. The Strigoi were already hurling rocks down on the climbing skeletons, battering them from the ladders.