Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

But until he knew for certain, he could not plan his next action. Give me facts, I must have facts, he thought, beheading an orc with a casual blow. What if they had been sent by Vorag? What if the Bloodytooth had at last discovered that W’soran was responsible for the death of his woman? Then again, it might have been Neferata — an easy assumption to make, given her recent treacheries. But what had she hoped to gain? Even Neferata was not so arrogant to assume that a bevy of hired blades would be put to him.

But Ushoran might be. Yes, the Lord of Masks had ever assumed that his cunning was greater than that of his enemies. But to send assassins — unless, had they been assassins, or kidnappers? More possibilities crashed through his brain, even as he disembowelled a bellowing orc. Could his own allies have decided to dispense with him? Ullo might consider it, perhaps, or Arpad, certainly… perhaps even one of his own. Suspicion burned in his mind as he caught sight of Melkhior striding through the cavern, flinging death from his hands. Had he finally decided to serve his poor master as he had so many of his fellow acolytes?

As focused on these questions as he was, W’soran almost missed the assassin. The vampire, like all of the others, was engaged in fighting the orcs, but upon sighting W’soran, he moved to complete his mission. W’soran saw it out of the corner of his good eye — saw the assassin, recognised him easily as close as he was thanks to the smell of spoiled blood and bear-fat that seemed to cling to him, and recognised the blade in his hand as it drove for his brainpan. Even W’soran was not quick enough to block or dodge that blade.

Then, with a roar, an orc crashed into the assassin. The blade skidded off W’soran’s shoulder and cheek, drawing blood, and he screamed and spun about. The assassin was on the ground, the orc’s hands on his throat. W’soran, never one to bother with gratitude, beheaded the latter with a contemptuous slash and grabbed the assassin by his bottom jaw, hoisting him into the air.

‘Well, well, well,’ he hissed. The assassin grabbed for him, and W’soran drove his scimitar into the other vampire’s gut, slowly, a bit at a time. ‘Six months I’ve wasted on you, my friend,’ he said, as the cross-guard of the hilt struck the assassin’s belly. ‘Six months of effort and questions.’

Then, with a flick, he withdrew the blade and sent the wounded vampire to the ground. The Strigoi tried to push himself to his feet, but W’soran planted a foot between his shoulder blades and shoved him back down. ‘No, don’t get up. I insist.’ He looked around. The revolt had been put down, and sufficiently bloodily. Once his acolytes had entered the fray, it had only taken a matter of minutes to put things in order. Heaps of smouldering green carcasses covered the floor of the cavern. Only one of his acolytes had faltered, and been dispatched by the maddened orcs, or so Melkhior said. Hruga, as it turned out, which was just as well, as W’soran had intended to punish him severely.

‘He wasn’t paying attention,’ Melkhior said, meeting W’soran’s calculating gaze. Idly, he touched the ruptured flesh that marked the spot where Hruga’s head had once rested. ‘The orc tore it off.’

‘I see that,’ W’soran said, leaving the assassin to his servants. ‘Orcs are strong, but it is odd to find one quite that strong.’

‘They are a varied species. I incinerated it, better safe than sorry,’ Melkhior said, rising to his feet. W’soran smiled.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Better safe than sorry. He was the closest to you in ability amongst the current crop, was he not, poor Hruga? Ah well, no matter.’ He glanced at the wounded assassin, who was now held aloft on the points of several spears kept by his servants. The vampire’s blood ran down the spears to patter across the floor in thick, ropy streams and W’soran reached out a palm to catch some of it. It tasted of grave-mould and rot, and he grimaced.

‘He is a Strigoi,’ Melkhior said, looking at the assassin. ‘Ushoran sent him, obviously. As I have said,’ he said.

‘As you never cease saying,’ W’soran corrected. ‘For six long months, you have said it, and I have said — what was it — ah, better safe than sorry,’ he continued, flinging Melkhior’s words back at him. ‘Yes, that was it. I want to be sure who my enemies are before I begin flailing at shadows, my son. Is there perhaps some other reason you are so eager to convince me of Ushoran’s guilt, eh? Is it a desire to press Strigos, perhaps?’ He glared at his acolyte for a moment before turning about and gesturing for his servants to carry the weakly struggling assassin away.

W’soran favoured the fuming Melkhior with a final glance. He motioned to the cavern and the bodies that littered it. ‘Clean up this sty, my son. That is your duty, after all.’

In the days that followed, W’soran questioned his would-be killer with the same single-minded intensity he had used in the hunt. To make an assumption, he knew, could prove fatal. He was surrounded by enemies both real and potential, and to divert his attention from one to the other wrongly was to court disaster.

For years, he had realised that he was fast approaching the knife-edge of things. The sharp end drew close, bringing with it the culmination of plans and schemes decades in the weaving. Since the fall of the first border-fort, he had spread his shadow further and farther across the mountains. His agents moved through the settlements and fortified villages of Strigos, spending gold freely, buying loyalty or indifference as the situation warranted. Fools like Melkhior thought war was a thing of armies and engagements, when W’soran knew, from experience, that it was more about the ground and time you chose, than the forces you brought. Battles could be won or lost for a matter of space or moments.

‘I will not fight until I am ready,’ he murmured. The assassin had been nailed to an examination table. Heavy iron spikes had been driven through his wrists and ankles and silver chains draped his neck and chest. The touch of that metal on his bare flesh filled the air with a scent reminiscent of burning pork and W’soran sniffed in satisfaction. The assassin was awake, though in tremendous pain. W’soran gestured to the chains, careful not to touch them.

‘Silver,’ he said. ‘I have been aware for many years of its more unfortunate properties in regards to our kind. Oh, we do not require it to kill or maim one another, but it does give one a certain edge, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ He waited for a response. When none appeared to be forthcoming, he sniffed again and snapped his fingers. Several of his crooked scribes lurched forward, bearing his tools and instruments. Carefully, W’soran selected a delicate blade, covered in curving sigils. ‘This belonged to a creature of my limited acquaintance who was as foul a torturer as has ever trod the jewelled sands of this world, despite her ageless beauty.’ He smiled, lost for a moment in a pleasant memory. ‘I have her head somewhere.’

He chuckled and deftly sliced open the assassin’s leg, ignoring the vampire’s scream of agony. ‘But I learned quite a few things from her before our sudden, but inevitable, falling out. From her, I learned of certain men in the Southlands, who can draw the secrets from an enemy simply by devouring them.’ He sliced the assassin’s tendon and stripped it free of its cage of meat. ‘It’s a similar belief to that of the sadly now-extinct Yaghur of the Eastern Marshes, who ritualised the… consumption of human flesh in order to gain the strength of enemies and placate the souls of the slain. Barbarity at its worst, I’m sure you’d agree, but not without its… points of interest, shall we say?’