Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘And what if they are using the dead as well?’ Ullo asked.

In answer, W’soran looked at Arpad. ‘Well?’

‘Living men, veterans of the northern frontier, by the description,’ he said. ‘They’ve got some sort of red beast’s skin on their standard…’

‘It’s a manticore,’ Ullo said. ‘The Red Lions, they’re Horda’s men. That means it’s likely that honour-obsessed bastard Walak is with them.’ His teeth scraped against one another. His eyes, normally as dead as stones, flashed with something that might have been rage.

‘Bad blood?’ W’soran purred.

Ullo glared at him. ‘That’s none of your concern, sorcerer.’

‘It was just a simple question,’ W’soran said, looking away. Ullo had served on the northern frontier, before he’d left Ushoran’s service. From what little W’soran knew, that leaving had been helped along by an attempted coup of some kind, with Ullo attempting to lead a revolt against the iron authority of Abhorash and his hand, for reasons as yet unknown to any save Ullo himself. W’soran could respect that sort of ambition, and he could not fault Ullo’s courage. If the Strigoi, as a whole, had one saving grace it was their courage. ‘What sort of commander is this Horda?’

‘He is a fool and a plodding one.’

‘And what of Walak?’ W’soran asked. He had never concerned himself with either of the brutal Harkoni who followed Abhorash. That Walak and his brother Lutr had been in Lahmia’s army, he knew, but that was as far as it went. ‘Is he a plod as well?’

Ullo’s expression turned dark. ‘No,’ he hissed. Hatred warred with respect in the Strigoi’s eyes. ‘He’s a devil, just like his master. Worse, maybe… the Dragon holds tight to his honour, even at cost to himself. Walak fights dirty.’ He snapped his teeth, biting off the end of the word. There was a story there, W’soran knew. But not one he cared to inquire after.

‘Handy to know,’ W’soran murmured. He watched the fires that consumed the village for a moment, considering. Then, ‘We shall simply have to make sure that we fight dirtier.’ He looked at the Strigoi. ‘You know what to do, my lords. Time is not on our side. Let us begin.’

Time might not have been on their side, but it was a simple enough matter to make sure the weather was. One of the first incantations that W’soran had learned was a spell to darken the sky and cause the clouds to grow black and angry. Though he was not as sensitive to light as his followers, he saw no reason to endure even that limited discomfort. It didn’t require much effort in any event — winter was stalking down from the mountains on bone-white paws. By the time Tarhos had joined them, the sky was the color of a frost-bitten limb and the clouds were heavy with incipient snows.

It had taken six days for Tarhos to reach them. In that time, Arpad had led the slave wagons south-east, towards the safety of Draesca territory, while W’soran and the others went in the opposite direction. If Abhorash had been with the enemy, W’soran would have worried that he might have bullied the other commander into following Arpad, but Walak, true to Ullo’s assertions, seemed disinclined towards the mock-heroism that Abhorash was unable to avoid indulging in.

What followed were days of running battle. With deft application of his forces, W’soran caught and held the attentions of the enemy’s scouts and outriders. Dead wolves, dragged from icy graves by his craft, lunged through the curtain of falling snow to drag down lone horsemen or to hurl themselves, slavering, their fleshless jaws spread wide, into the packed ranks of marching men. Skeletons squatted beneath snow drifts and rose to the attack amidst their enemy, striking out in all directions. He sacrificed hundreds of the dead to buy mere hours, knowing even as he did it that it would inflame and provoke his pursuers. As Ullo had said, Horda was a beast with a gnaw-bone.

The enemy left a trail of corpses in their wake. W’soran wondered, briefly, at the lack of necromantic magics, and the waste of such wonderful material, but then pushed the thought aside. What business of his was it if his enemies deprived themselves of a useful tool? Abhorash had never approved of sorcery, and it was likely his brood felt the same way.

On the tenth day, they made their stand. The ground was thick with snow, and uneven, broken by rocks, hills and scrub trees. At their back was a vast frozen lake, and the air was redolent with the sounds of grinding, cracking ice and the dull slap of freezing water. W’soran ordered the dead into neat ranks, their backs to the water, ready to meet the enemy’s charge. Then, with Ullo and Tarhos, he retreated to a safe distance to wait.

‘Tell me about the orcs,’ W’soran said, as they waited. He glanced at his acolyte, a Draesca named Merck, who’d been assigned to aid Tarhos. ‘Their numbers, their disposition, anything pertinent to this affair, Merck…’

‘The Red Eyes are a large tribe, master. They came down through the Peak Pass and swept most of the smaller tribes west. They’re heading south, though not in any great hurry,’ Merck said, stroking his ratty beard. His flesh was thick with wrinkles and his eyes were like black pits. Rodent-like fangs left shallow cuts in his thin lips.

W’soran nodded. He’d sent Tarhos to divert the orcs from rampaging into the path of his legions, while he conducted his own raids. He’d assumed they were a local tribe, however, like the Iron Claws.

‘They’ve come farther than I would have thought,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised Abhorash hasn’t… ha.’ He blinked. ‘Oh, oh you old fool, W’soran. Poor old W’soran, your mind has turned to stone!’ He laughed. ‘South, you say? From the Peak Pass, you say, yes?’ He looked at the Strigoi. Tarhos had a blank look on his face, but Ullo-

‘The witch,’ he rasped.

‘Yes! There might be hope for you yet, Ullo. Neferata! She always was good at handling savages. Somehow, she’s diverting them, sending this large tribe directly for us, while funnelling the run-off, the dregs, west into Strigos.’ He pounded a fist into his palm. ‘Two birds with one stone was always Neferata’s preference, greedy girl that she is.’ He could see her plan now, as if she’d laid it out for him herself… an orc Waaagh wasn’t like a normal army. It was more like runoff from a mountain stream, gathering force and strength as it crashed down. The Red Eyes wouldn’t be weakened, if they fought their way across the mountains, into the east. To the contrary, they’d only grow stronger and fiercer.

‘Another splinter in my heart, eh?’ he muttered. ‘Well, let’s hope that the Strigoi can put a dent in them for us, eh?’

They caught sight of the first horsemen a few moments later, galloping through the distant trees. Ullo gave a grunt, attracting W’soran’s attention. ‘They’re here.’

‘Of course they are. They smell blood. We are cornered prey, and our kind finds it hard to resist that,’ W’soran said. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘The hill-tribes call this place the Black Water. They swear there are beasts in the water.’ He turned back, and looked at Tarhos. ‘Where are the orcs?’

‘A few hours out, maybe less, if they get a scent of man-flesh,’ the big Strigoi said, scratching his cheek with his hook. ‘Your sorcery and the weather have kept them hidden, and they’ve been taking advantage of it, the green-skinned animals.’

‘Good,’ W’soran said. ‘When the time comes, you know what to do?’

The two Strigoi looked sullen. Tarhos nodded, but said, ‘I dislike running from a fight.’

‘Then by all means stay and battle on,’ W’soran said, ‘but I intend to run, when the time comes, and this army, once it has done its job, will collapse, so you’ll be fighting alone.’ He grinned. ‘Of course, I’d have thought that that would appeal to brutes like you.’