Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

Tarhos galloped past, hunched over his mount’s neck. ‘They’re here,’ he shouted. ‘The orcs are here!’

W’soran looked past him and saw that the Strigoi wasn’t wrong. The orcs had arrived, in their numberless ranks. Snorting boars, their bristles lank with rime and filth, burst from the scraggly tree-line and made a beeline for the closest of the enemy. Behind them came the rest of the horde, panting with exertion and roaring out a multitude of nonsensical challenges. The trees burst and shattered as the ponderous shape of a giant forced its way through them. The mammoth creature uprooted a heavy rock and hurled it at the distant Strigoi. Men and horses were crushed beneath the rock and the giant gave a thunderous bellow of satisfaction.

Walak cursed and his blade dipped. W’soran made his decision. He lunged. His scimitar crashed down on Walak’s pauldron, rocking the warrior. He staggered and W’soran darted past him, hauling Ullo to his feet as he went. Then, half-dragging Ullo, he made for the latter’s mount. Flinging the Strigoi across the saddle, he climbed up and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, setting it in pursuit of Tarhos. Walak made no effort to pursue. The first of the boar riders had reached the remaining vojnuk, and battle commenced. W’soran grinned as, behind him, men and orcs died.

Regardless of who triumphed here, the ultimate victory would be his.

It was simply a matter of time.

The Black Gulf

(Year -1149 Imperial Calendar)

It was less a fishing village than a pirate enclave. One of a hundred nestled along the coast. Corsairs, smugglers and slavers from Araby, Sartosa and Cathay walked the crude boardwalks that connected the pontoon-balanced lodges. It squatted on the edge of the marshes, where the salt waters of the Black Gulf met the sour, but fresh waters of the marshes. Ushoran had claimed one of the outer lodges, just outside the sea-wall palisade. W’soran did not ask what happened to the previous occupants, and the other inhabitants of the enclave kept their distance. Ushoran had no get and W’soran’s surviving followers had made themselves at home.

‘I should have expected that you would find sanctuary amongst pirates and thieves,’ W’soran said, sipping from the crude goblet. It was the first taste of human blood he’d had in weeks, and he gave a small sigh as a burst of long-absent strength filled him. He had learned early on that their kind could, if necessary, subsist on the stuff of sorcery, but it was in blood that they found pleasure. Ushoran, sitting nearby, grunted.

‘Not for long. The dead move fast, and the kings of the Great Land have woken in their hundreds, to reclaim their ancient demesnes. Numas once claimed these marshes. Ptar and the other kings will soon put this place to the torch. A matter of weeks, I estimate, until the pecking order is sorted out amongst the awakened kings, and the sortie is launched.’ He set his own goblet down and ran a finger across his lips, wiping away the blood that clung there. It had belonged to a young woman that Ushoran had purchased from a disreputable Arabyan slaver of his acquaintance that evening and subsequently gutted. ‘I, for one, do not intend to be here when they arrive.’

‘Sensible,’ W’soran muttered, clutching his goblet in both hands. He hesitated, then asked the question that had been bothering him since they’d arrived. ‘Why did you save me?’

The bats had done their job well. The dead of Nehekhara had been distracted while W’soran made his escape. With Ushoran as their guide, they had come to the settlement within a few days. The pursuit had broken off after Ushoran’s ambush, though W’soran doubted that Ptar was once more safely in his grave. Nehekhara was in upheaval, despite the unloving state of its people. King fought king in the streets of every city and silent legions clashed in the wastes between. Ptar likely couldn’t waste the time hunting W’soran any longer, not with eighteen generations of his fellow kings jostling for control of his territories.

Ushoran was silent for a moment. Then, he looked through the flattened strips of marsh-reed that made up the curtain over the entrance to the lodge. It was night outside, and a silvery moon graced the sea with its kiss. He picked up his goblet and took a sip. ‘I never let a useful tool go to waste,’ Ushoran said.

W’soran grimaced. ‘I am no tool of yours, Lord of Masks.’

‘Not at the moment, no,’ Ushoran said. ‘But who can say what the future holds?’

W’soran gave a snort of laughter. He sobered quickly. ‘I could have used your aid in Nagashizzar.’

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference,’ Ushoran said dismissively, watching the moon.

‘It might have,’ W’soran said. He cocked an eye at the other vampire. ‘Where were you? The rest of us were sent out, but you…’

‘Nagash forgot about me.’ Ushoran tapped the side of his head. ‘He forgot a lot, towards the end.’

W’soran was suddenly alert. ‘You saw how he died?’

‘I saw much, in those final days,’ Ushoran said, softly. ‘He wasn’t a god, you know.’

‘I’m well aware of Nagash’s failings,’ W’soran said. Then, suspiciously, ‘What did you have to do with it, Ushoran?’

‘Nothing, W’soran,’ He said and smiled. ‘Then, perhaps something.’ He sighed and looked away. ‘It was Alcadizzar. The ratkin freed him and gave him a blade. They almost didn’t find him.’ He took another sip of blood and made a face. ‘They were quite surprised, at the time. But they are a race used to treachery, and they didn’t question.’

W’soran stared. ‘You treacherous animal…’ he hissed. ‘You helped them. You helped them!’ He stood and gestured accusingly. ‘It was your fault — all of it was your fault!’ A flush of rage filled him — not for Nagash’s sake, or even for what had been lost, but for himself. He’d seen no hint of treachery in the other vampire, and it annoyed him to be made a fool of.

Ushoran leaned back in his seat. ‘Yes. It was.’

‘Why?’ W’soran demanded, looming over the seemingly unconcerned Ushoran.

‘Why?’ Ushoran asked. He set his goblet aside and stood slowly. ‘He killed us, W’soran. He killed our people — every man, woman and child. He killed every animal and every oasis. He killed our history and our future. He killed the Great Land for spite, and for spite’s sake, I helped his killers in turn.’

W’soran stepped back, frowning. ‘Don’t tell me you felt something for them. You were happy enough to bleed the living when we ruled…’

‘It was ours, W’soran,’ Ushoran said, and there was heat to his words, now. ‘The Great Land was ours. It belonged to us. We lifted it from the muck and made it a land to be feared once again!’

‘And then you let it slip through your fingers,’ W’soran said. ‘Was this about revenge, then? Dead is dead. What matters the how of it, or who made the killing stroke?’

Ushoran smiled and shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, do you?’ The smile faded. ‘We could have made an empire to rival Settra’s, and instead we allowed it all to fall to dust. And Nagash… Nagash was a monster. He would have seen the end of everything. Does that prospect truly appeal to you, W’soran? Is a slow march to oblivion what you truly want? Or do you desire something else?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why did you serve Nagash, W’soran? Men only serve when they are too afraid to rule.’

W’soran hesitated. ‘You served Neferata,’ he said. ‘And Nagash!’