Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

The Strigoi was presumptuous, but W’soran allowed him his presumption. The strongest chains were those a man forged himself. Ullo thought that W’soran intended to snaffle off chunks of Strigos for himself, as his enemies warred on each other; a war of scavengers, picking bones while the great predators roared and fought over the carcass. But that was not his true goal.

What need did he have of an empire? Empires were ephemeral things. No, power was his goal. That and the payment of debts owed him. But to gain power, he needed the resources an empire provided. To beat and break his enemies, he needed a weapon equal to theirs. Granted, his weapon was of simpler construction — the only living beings in his empire were slaves. He had no need of diplomacy or of politesse as Ushoran did. Let him waste his energies and resources on manipulation and military stratagems, while W’soran sat and waited.

He was good at waiting. He had waited twenty years for someone to pull him from his jar. He had waited centuries to discover Nagash’s secrets. He would wait millennia to see his foes kneel at his feet. The thought warmed him, and he turned his attentions back to the hapless Strigoi peasants being herded into the cages. He felt neither pity nor interest in them — then, he never had. For W’soran, his fellow men could be divided into two, often equally despised camps… obstacles and tools. The latter were only such until they invariably, inevitably became the former. They served him, until they had to be disposed of. They could not be trusted, for trust was power and W’soran would suffer no one to have power over him, if he could avoid it. When he couldn’t, his very nature made him squirm and strike like an asp when that power weakened even a fraction. And like an asp, W’soran only knew two solutions to a given problem, despite his wealth of knowledge — either kill the problem or flee from it.

It had always been thus, even in his youth in Mahrak. When he had ascended to the priesthood, he had become acquainted with plenty of tools and obstacles both in his early, puerile attempts to gain the power he so craved through generous application of manipulation and poison. Then Nagash, after usurping the throne of Khemri, had reached out his hand and snuffed the life from Mahrak, and he thought, at last, he had found the path to true power.

Nagash, the Undying King, had reduced every man to the status of a tool. To W’soran, in that moment when the first of the corpses clogging Mahrak’s streets had risen unsteadily to its feet, it had seemed as if the way to true power had, at last, been made clear.

He clutched his amulets and felt the tingle of power in his fingertips. The abn-i-khat whispered to him, and his eyes drifted to the horizon, where the ever-present black blotch of Mourkain’s shadow caressed the stars. ‘Soon,’ he whispered. ‘Soon the only shadow cast over these mountains — over this world — will be mine.’ That was the point of power. To be the strongest was to be the safest. With all of his enemies broken, with all men made over into tools for his will, he could cease striving. He closed his eyes. He could rest. There would be nothing left to fear.

Would Ushoran thank him, he wondered? He liked to think so. He cherished the image. They would all thank him and fear him, as they always should have done. They feared Nagash, but W’soran would prove a greater horror than the Undying King. ‘King,’ he whispered. ‘Pah, I will be emperor- an emperor of blood and a lord of the dead.’

He felt a stirring in the winds of death, and wondered if Ushoran had heard him. He hoped so. He was not afraid, and he wanted the king of Mourkain, and the darkling spirit that whispered to him, to know it. I am not afraid. It is you who should fear me, he thought.

His eyes popped open as Arpad rode up to join them, lashing his mount in his haste. ‘The scouts have sighted a column!’ he shouted as he yanked on his mount’s reins, causing it to rear. ‘They think it’s Abhorash!’

W’soran hissed. Courage faded, replaced by consternation. ‘Impossible. He’s off fighting the Draesca,’ he snapped. He wasn’t ready to face Abhorash yet.

Arpad made a face. ‘From the description, if it’s not the Red Dragon it’s one of his damnable claws, which is almost as bad. Those bastards are tougher than I like,’ he said.

Ullo shook his wedge-shaped head. ‘How far out are they?’

‘A day, maybe two,’ Arpad said. He looked at W’soran. ‘If we leave the prisoners, we can outpace them.’

‘And why would we want to do that, eh?’ W’soran asked, not looking at either Strigoi. He thought quickly, weighing, gauging. ‘This is perfect. Perfect!’ He pounded his saddle with a fist. He looked at Ullo. ‘Tarhos is only four days north of here, seeing to the greenskins that threaten our endeavours. Send riders to him. Have him fall back to rejoin us.’

‘The orcs will follow him,’ Arpad protested. ‘He’ll lead them right down on us!’

‘Exactly,’ W’soran said. He leaned back and stroked his chin. ‘We have been presented with an unparalleled opportunity, my friends, and one we would be foolish to ignore.’

‘What do you mean?’ Ullo asked, looking at him.

‘Whether it’s Abhorash or merely one of his lickspittles, their presence implies that the approaching force is no rag-tag frontier force, but a hardened legion. And it is one that he would not lightly spare.’ He clutched his amulets tightly. ‘And we have the opportunity to destroy it and deal Mourkain a definite blow.’

‘And weaken them in the process,’ Ullo said. He nodded brusquely. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We will draw them in, and distract them, until it’s too late — the urka will crash into them.’ He displayed his mouthful of fangs in a too-wide grin. ‘Even if they win, they’ll be shattered. Excellent, and here I almost believed Melkhior when he asserted that you lacked a warrior’s instinct, W’soran.’ He eyed W’soran, obviously gauging his reaction.

W’soran restrained his first impulse, and then his second. He settled for a grimace. Melkhior was growing ever more vocal in his dissatisfaction with his current lot as castellan of W’soran’s citadel, for all that it was a position of high honour to W’soran’s way of thinking. In truth, he did not enjoy the vagaries of war, though he was self-aware enough to admit that the customary acts of violence required of all warriors scratched a certain itch. But war itself was a tedious affair. One of several reasons he had kept his involvement to a few reputed raids.

Yet, he was looking forward to this. If it was Abhorash who was coming, it would be the sweetest of nectars to draw him into a trap and watch it snap shut about his priggish, unbending neck. To watch the champion of Lahmia die, pulled beneath a filthy green sea, would be a joy second to none. He rubbed his hands together in glee, savouring the anticipation. He wasn’t ready to meet Abhorash in open battle, but he’d happily watch him die, oh yes.

‘Arpad, load up the slaves and take them ahead with your legion. Take my acolytes with you. Dead or alive, I want every slave to reach Crookback Mountain. Ullo and I shall draw Abhorash — or whoever it is — off with the rest and join up with Tarhos. We shall find ground and hold them in battle until the orcs arrive and then, we shall vanish like a morning mist.’

‘And what of our warriors? We may not have time to disengage,’ Ullo said.

W’soran made a dismissive gesture. ‘Our warriors are dead. Once we have drawn the enemy in, there is little need to keep them moving. We can always make more, later. Especially if we return after the battle… I’m sure we will find more replacements than we can effectively use.’