Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘Oh my,’ W’soran said. Lost for a moment in the beauty of his new discovery, he sat on the ground and clapped his hands like a gleeful child. His excitement was interrupted by a savage thrust from the Lahmian whose wrist he’d shattered. Her sword carved a red trail across his scrawny chest and he fell back and bent beneath the blade as it hooked around, biting for his neck. He scrambled backwards like a spider, his crouched body crooked unnaturally as the Lahmian tore the ground in pursuit, skittering after him like a mongoose on the trail of a serpent.

With a creak and a pop of old bones he bobbed to his feet just in time to avoid another palm-strike from Iona, who spun about him, catching him in the shoulder, elbow and knee with a further flurry of swift blows. She moved like one of the cruel apes of Ind or one of the Dragon-Emperor’s pet water-snakes, always gone by the time his eyes reached the last space she’d occupied. The natural speed of a vampire, coupled with the deadly skill of a war-monk, made for a lethal combination. A hand held flat like a blade skidded across his cheek, opening the dry flesh to the bone, and he staggered. The sword of the other Lahmian kissed his spine and he gave a cough of pain. He had to get clear of them, to give his newest creations a chance to come to his aid.

Moving swiftly, he trapped the thrusting sword beneath his arm and threw himself forward, tearing it from its owner’s grip. The Lahmian staggered and W’soran seized the opening, whipping the blade about in a wild but powerful blow, almost severing the other vampire’s head from her shoulders. Iona gave a cry as her sister fell and dived towards him. A crackle of sorcerous lightning flung her back before she could reach him. He watched her tumble to the ground, hissing in pain, and then turned back.

Shull stood in the doorway of his palace, a hand raised, and his eyes alight with a weird glow. He looked even closer to death than before, and his ceremonial armour hung from his shrivelled frame. Nonetheless, his crooked, arthritic form radiated a terrible power. Shadows snapped and surged around him like pennants caught in a strong wind and the wights had formed about him like an honour guard.

‘I beg your forgiveness, my lord. The whispers of my beloved brother-kings awoke me from the cursed slumber these witches placed upon me.’ Shull’s glowing eyes fell upon Iona. She had clambered to her feet, and Varna and the other surviving Lahmians had joined her. ‘The Handmaidens of the Moon are no longer welcome in the lands of the Draesca. You have proven false, and dead or living you will find no friends here.’

His words echoed strangely across the settlement, slithering through the oily air and alighting in the ears of every watching tribesperson like bats seeking a roost. Weapons were drawn, and looks of grim determination replaced the previous expressions of fear and worry.

W’soran stepped away from the Lahmians, and grinned as Shull continued. ‘Wherever you go in our lands, the hand of every man will be turned against you, for this betrayal. You are accursed and I bid you go and trouble my sight no longer.’

The Lahmians hissed, and one — Varna — made as if to launch herself at Shull. But Iona grabbed her shoulder, halting her. She looked at Shull and inclined her head. ‘Let it not be said that the servants of the goddess of mercy and moon do not heed the commands of kings. We do not go where we are not invited.’ Her gaze switched to W’soran. ‘This could have been avoided, old monster. Now… it is war between us.’

‘Were you under the impression it was ever anything but?’ W’soran said. He exposed his fangs. He laughed. ‘Neferata and Ushoran both think they are entitled to rule this fallen world, one by blood and the other by delusion. But they are wrong,’ he called out to the Lahmians as they took their leave. ‘Only one among our accursed crew is fit to rule. Tell her that, little maid. Tell her what her old counsellor has said. Tell her that W’soran has decided to take what he is owed, and that the debt to him will soon be repaid in full and in blood! ’

Marshes of Madness

(Year -1149 Imperial Calendar)

The dead had pursued them for days.

Relentless and untiring, the soldiers of the Great Land marched through the marshes, ever on their trail. For two years, the servants of the newly awakened Tomb Kings had hunted the remaining followers of Nagash from one end of the Great Land to the other. Some, like Arkhan, had fled west, across the burning sands to Khemri, in an attempt to carve out a kingdom for themselves. Others, like Mahtep, had gone south, hunting safety in the distant jungles.

W’soran himself, after losing control of Nagashizzar to that wretched liche Arkhan, had thought to seek sanctuary in Araby, but he had been driven back by the overwhelming armies of the newly-awakened dead. The crypt legions of Numas had shattered his small army and scattered his ghoulish retainers, leaving he and his few remaining acolytes stranded in enemy territory. Now, they made their way to the shores of the Great Ocean, where he hoped to procure a vessel of some kind and kick the dust of Nehekhara from his heels.

He cursed for the fifth time in as many minutes as his keen hearing caught the clatter of brown bones moving through the sharp-bladed marsh grass. He pulled his damp robes tight and kept moving. Zoar and his remaining apprentices hurried to keep up. ‘Hurry, fools,’ he spat. ‘We need to find high ground.’

The apprentices were moving more slowly than he would have liked, burdened as they were by grimoires, scrolls and baskets of abn-i-khat. He’d taken everything he could from Nagashizzar — he’d picked the bones of the fortress, snatching anything that looked like it might be useful. There was no sense leaving any of it to the Undying King’s other servants, worthless lot of bone-bags that they were, especially Arkhan.

Unfortunately, Arkhan had interrupted him before he could complete the rituals that would have given him complete control of Nagashizzar. It had been all he could do to get away. He’d built a small army from the dead that littered the black shores of the Sour Sea and set off to carve a path through the Great Land to Araby. If he could have made it to Bel Aliad, he had no doubt that he could have made himself king, whether Abhorash opposed him or not…

Bones rattled and then a skeletal steed, adorned in golden barding, galloped through the murky waters of the marsh, a mummified king on its back. More skeletal riders joined the first. W’soran’s apprentices scattered in panic, dropping their burdens in the process. W’soran himself, shaken from his reverie, nearly lost his head to the king’s khopesh. He sank into the murky waters of the marsh as the horsemen charged past, seeking a moment’s shelter.

Zoar and the others shrieked incantations as their pursuers sought to separate them and ride them down. Ancient spears dipped, and the vampire closest to Zoar screamed piteously as he was hoisted into the air to dangle helplessly, a spear in his guts. Another was pierced from three different directions, and torn apart by the momentum of the skeletal horseman.

Zoar fared better, spitting destructive magics. A horseman exploded into dust and fragments and another was consumed in black fire. Another acolyte had forgone magic in favour of the bronze-headed barrow-axe he carried, and he swung, shattering a horse skull with vampiric strength. He fell a moment later, as a spear-point punctured the back of his head and exploded out from between his gaping jaws. The rider lifted the spear, dragging the vampire into the air, where more spears soon sought his vitals.