Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

It was a strange sort of immortality, but one that occupied W’soran’s thoughts more and more. Somehow, some way, Nagash had defied the utter destruction of his physical shell. Some small, but steadily growing shard of him was anchored to the world by the crown. And like a burrowing insect, it had found both shelter and sustenance in the masters of Mourkain; first Kadon and now Ushoran.

Yes, it was a peculiar sort of immortality. It was a bodiless eternity, existing as pure intellect, until settling within another shape, usurping bodies as he had the throne of Khemri at the beginning of the whole sad history of things. And W’soran desired to know just how he’d done it. Thus, he’d created the helm of the high kings for the Draesca.

‘I merely sought to lend aid to the faithful,’ W’soran said smoothly. Shull’s frame quivered, racked by shuddering coughs. And I wanted to see if I could improve upon Nagash’s artless craftsmanship , he thought. He did not see his own eyes staring back at him from within Shull’s, though that didn’t bother him overmuch. After all, had Nagash’s crown possessed its raw, mad sentience before his doom had fallen upon him in the form of a crazed Alcadizzar? ‘Your people have prospered since I last journeyed to these lands, oh mighty chief-of-chiefs. It pleases me to see it.’

He had taken a small contingent and gone north from the Badlands, after breaching the ring of protective fortifications that blocked the high pass, to take the lay of the land himself. His were the only eyes he could trust. He’d left Ullo in charge. Melkhior had not been happy, but W’soran had seen little reason to abet his acolyte’s delusions of military prowess.

In fact, he was beginning to wonder if it might not be best to remove Melkhior from the field entirely. Like all Strigoi, he fancied himself a warlord in the offing; in the first tentative raids they’d made into the fringes of Strigos, he’d relied less and less on his magics, and more and more on his sword-arm. A muscle unused soon withered, W’soran knew.

Not that one more or one less apprentice mattered; W’soran had begun collecting a new coterie of acolytes as he travelled around the edges of Ushoran’s crumbling empire. Itinerant shamans and exiled hedge-witches had found new homes and new purpose beneath his wing. That was ostensibly his reason for visiting the Draesca who, above all the other tribes, birthed men with a great capacity for controlling magic. Among them, he’d find a number of willing apprentices. Part of him wondered if it were due to the helm… whether it corrupted them, even as the crown had the Strigoi.

Besides his scholarly interest, the Draesca were one of the few fonts of information about what was going on in Ushoran’s lands available to him. His old spy network had been systematically dismantled or re-purposed by Ushoran in the months following his flight. And before the next stage of his plan could be enacted, he needed to know how things stood.

From the Draesca he’d learned about orcs proliferating once more in the eastern reaches of Strigos, and of the internal revolts within the Strigoi settlements along the Skull River. He’d learned that the tribes in the Vaults and the Black Mountains were attacking all along the Strigoi frontier. The empire was fluid at the best of times but it had become positively porous since the last time W’soran had been within its boundaries. The Draesca were among the largest of the tribes of the western heights, and they had taken to warring regularly with their fellows. It was a very encouraging picture, all things considered — Mourkain’s belly was exposed and the empire of Strigos was ripe for the plucking.

‘We have had nothing but good fortune since you made us this gift,’ Shull said, reaching up with trembling, liver-spotted fingers to stroke the grotesque gargoyle skull carved on the front of the helm. ‘We are unassailable, and invincible. The ancestors themselves ride to war with us, bringing death and terror to our enemies.’ He gestured to the berths and the bodies therein. ‘The tribes of the lowlands shudder in their lodges when we descend upon them with fire and sword.’

W’soran nodded and said, ‘And what of your relations with Mourkain, High King?’ The Draesca had been included in those early negotiations centuries before, when Strigos had begun trading dwarf-crafted weapons to the mountain tribes in return for unmolested trading routes and aid against the orcs that filled the mountains like toadstools. Since the fall of the Silver Pinnacle, the dawi had slammed their doors against the men they shared the mountains with, even as they waged incessant war with the greenskins, who seemed drawn to the burrows of the under-men with a passion that W’soran found alarming. The battles between the stunted ones and their enemies stretched across the mountains, sweeping up any unlucky enough to be caught in the middle. More than one tribe of hillmen had been extinguished, caught between the immovable object and the irresistible force.

Shull spat a glob of blood to the floor. ‘That for Morgheim,’ he croaked. That was the name the mountain folk knew Mourkain by. It meant ‘place of death’, which, W’soran supposed, was as accurate a title as any. Shull went on, ‘It is a sick beast, staggering on two legs to its dying place. The wild men of the far hills carve portions from its hide daily, and the Great Red Dragon cannot be everywhere at once.’

W’soran’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Abhorash. The champion had been given the nickname not long after his arrival in Mourkain, and it suited him. He was certainly just as arrogant, not to mention just as dangerous, as one of those semi-mythical beasts. ‘So it is true, then…’ he murmured. Part of him had suspected that Neferata’s agents had been exaggerating.

‘They say you have gone east, lord,’ Shull said. ‘That you serve under the banners of the Bloodytooth and that he is the true hetman of Mourkain.’

‘Oh? And who says this?’ W’soran asked.

‘The Handmaidens of the Moon, oh speaker of the dead,’ a sibilant voice purred. ‘And we would know.’

Thin, elegant shadows detached themselves from the darkness behind Shull’s throne, and W’soran cursed himself for not having noticed them earlier. The Lahmians were slender creatures, with eyes like lamps in the darkness of their cowls. There were three of them and they wore the thin robes of the followers of the hill-goddess Shaya. That was another of Neferata’s innovations.

One threw back her hood, revealing crimson tresses and a feral beauty. ‘I am Iona,’ she said.

‘I know who you are,’ W’soran said.

‘Oh? I was not aware that we were acquainted.’

‘Not you personally, but one of you is as much the same as another,’ W’soran said stiffly. The others were slowly circling him, like a pack of lionesses on the hunt. He tensed, wondering if they intended to attack him here. Had they been waiting for him? Had Neferata come to the obvious conclusion, when her handmaidens failed to return, and when Vorag had not launched an invasion of Strigos? The scar on his chest tingled painfully, and he remembered the thrust of the wood and the darkness of the jar. Ruthlessly, he pushed down the twinge of hesitation.

‘The handmaidens carry word from one tribe to another,’ Shull said. ‘Even as they have since the time of the first high king, Volker Urk-Bane.’ He coughed into a clenched fist, and Iona stepped to his side, as if concerned. ‘They bring us joyful tidings, my lord. They give hope that the tyrant who rules Morgheim will soon be staked out for the birds, and that a true king, and friend to the tribes, will rule.’

W’soran stepped back, trying to keep the Lahmians in sight. His escort were outside, waiting for him. He’d brought only living men with him, reasoning that it would make travel easier and less noticeable, and, if worse came to worse, he could butcher the lot and raise them. Now he was regretting it. The Strigoi warriors, tough as they were, would not provide much obstacle for the Lahmians. And his new apprentices were untested, and far too ignorant for his liking. For a moment, he wished he’d brought Melkhior with him, rather than leaving him behind.