Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘We are still playing for time, then?’ Melkhior asked.

W’soran ascended a few more steps before replying. He gazed up at the eternally-burning, yet never-consumed skeletons that cast a weird light across the vast stairs. They were held in great cages chained to the dips and nooks of the stone walls and wreathed in a sorcerous fire that never went out. He and his kind did not truly require the light, but it was somehow… comforting. A visible, simple reminder to himself of the power he wielded. He admired his handiwork a moment before replying. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Strigos totters, but it is not yet ready to fall.’

‘And in the interim, Ushoran grows stronger,’ Melkhior said harshly. ‘That daemon-crown he wears grows stronger.’

‘Ah, I see you have finally resumed your studies,’ W’soran said, looking down at his acolyte. ‘And what have you learned, hmmm? What gleanings have you gathered from my knowledge, eh?’

Melkhior glanced at the other acolytes, and then at the crouching scribes before replying. ‘I know that while Strigos may falter, our true enemy only grows more powerful. Do you fear him… master?’

W’soran blinked. Then he smiled. ‘What are you implying, my son?’

‘Why are we playing a waiting game?’ Melkhior flung out a hand. ‘We have the strongest army in these mountains. We are the greatest sorcerers and the Strigoi will flock to us, even with Vorag’s absence! Even the Lahmians would join us, if we made tacit reparations. We could close the trap and finish this charade!’

‘Could we? Or would we merely hasten our own defeat, eh? The Lahmians — and the Strigoi too, don’t doubt it — would turn on us the moment Ushoran was toppled from his damnable throne,’ W’soran said, descending towards Melkhior. ‘Yes, Ushoran grows stronger and more sure of his new power, but so too do we.’ He spread his arms. ‘Let him rise, unbridled and roaring like Nagash reborn, then, and only then we will meet him in a clash of death, in dead lands, from which only one will emerge the victor. They will all see then, Melkhior. They will see our might, and know fear .’ He made a fist and exposed his fangs in triumphal sneer. ‘Only then, will our foes know our power, and bow to us.’

‘You… you want him to tap into the full power of that damnable crown?’ Melkhior asked.

‘Of course,’ W’soran said. ‘If this is war — if I am to be emperor — I must prove myself to be the strongest, the fittest to rule. By my brain, my strength and my sorcery, I will be declared the master of death, and none will gainsay me. I will defeat Ushoran, and impose my will on the others in the doing of it. I am owed that much, for my services and struggles, wouldn’t you say?’

‘You’re mad,’ Melkhior hissed, forgetting himself in his shock.

W’soran let the comment pass. ‘No. I am efficient . In Mahrak, we had a saying… take the tail, you only anger the serpent. But take its head… ah.’ He held up a finger and twitched it with pedantic precision. ‘The thing that drives Ushoran crouches just past the skin of the world, pressing its talons against it — it is nothing but will without mind, intent without intelligence. It is not Nagash, but simply the last shreds of the power that grew in him. I intend to let that power in, then finish it for good. Otherwise… what is the purpose of immortality, eh? What is the purpose of an eternity of fearing such a thing? No! Let Ushoran drape himself in Nagash’s might. I will kill him. I will break his black soul on the charnel rack of the Corpse Geometries and smash down the sour light of that foul crown for all time. I will take every secret, every forgotten thought from Nagash’s creation and make it mine — as they always should have been ! I was his student! I was his heir — not that fool, Arkhan, and certainly not Ushoran! And I will not have that which is mine to claim taken from me by an inferior mind,’ W’soran rasped and chopped the air with a stiffened hand. Abruptly, he calmed and straightened, lowering his hands, and said, more quietly, ‘I am owed this.’

He looked down at them. His other acolytes cowered behind Melkhior, who looked fairly uncertain himself. The scribes continued to write, unheeding. ‘Do you know what it is like to see the face of divinity and have it ripped aside to expose the flawed, weak thing within? They say — or said, rather — that that is what happened to Nagash. That he saw that the gods of the Great Land were not truly gods, but simply… powers. And that he could rival them in their power, and in knowing that, he thought them weak and pathetic.’ He shuddered slightly. ‘Nagash was no more a god than those ancient powers. He was not infallible, or omnipotent. He was a stupid, crippled thing, addicted to these stones,’ he continued, gesturing to his amulets of abn-i-khat, ‘and addicted to his spite. And he is dead and that of him which remains is nothing but a nightmare that I will disperse to claim my due.’

They were strong words, words for posterity and words of power. They were lies. He knew that they were lies, even as he spoke them. An errant memory bubbled to the surface, even as he spoke: a memory of Ushoran, sitting across from him, asking him what he feared.

He had not answered then. He did not truly know the answer, nor, in truth, did he truly understand the question. There was much to fear in the world. As his power grew, so too did the fear. The fears of the mighty were far greater than the fears of the weak. He felt contempt for Nagash, but he also feared him still, though he was long gone from the world. He feared the one being that he could not fight — could not even confront, as he had confronted others.

That fear gave Nagash power over him still, even now. Perhaps that was the real reason he stalled and dithered and waited. The thought struck him like a bolt from the blue, a moment of realisation that made him more tired than any battle or contest he had yet faced.

‘Enough. A good student should ask questions, Melkhior, and answer them. How go the mining operations in the depths?’ he asked, changing the subject.

Melkhior coughed and straightened his robes. ‘Satisfactory, we have thousands of slaves — both dead and alive — down in the pits, mining the ores we require. If — when — Vorag returns, he’ll have a treasury greater than any yet seen by the kings of these mountains. Iron ore as well, and quarried stone for the fortifications we will build.’

‘Excellent. I think your services as an overseer far outweigh your abilities as a sorcerer, Melkhior,’ W’soran said mildly. He began ascending the stairs once more. ‘With what’s left of the Red Eye tribe added to the slave pens, our production capabilities will increase dramatically. Not to mention our raw materials…’ He smiled gleefully. ‘Oh, the things I will make.’

‘And what of the weapons you promised Vorag so long ago, master? When will you create them?’ Melkhior asked, shushing another acolyte.

W’soran didn’t pause. ‘Oh, I never intended to do that,’ he said, gesturing airily. ‘No, we’ll strip those engines of their secrets, but we have no need of such crude ballistae. We can craft more reliable war engines from the materials at hand. I simply wanted to study them, and distract Vorag from his obsessions.’

‘As opposed to yours, you mean,’ Melkhior snapped.

W’soran laughed. ‘Oh, you are in a rare mood aren’t you, my son. Accusing me of cowardice, and then of being obsessed…’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘One would think you’re feeling left out of the war-mongering.’

‘I should be at your side!’ Melkhior said. ‘Not here, in this stone kennel. Let Urdek or one of these others keep your books and catalogue the mine proceeds. Let me loose, master, and I will lead your legions into the heart of Mourkain.’ Several of the other acolytes murmured assent. They were as eager to be rid of Melkhior as he was to be rid of them.