Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

W’soran held up the tendon and examined it in the torchlight. ‘It was an interesting theory — the consumption of a thing to reveal its secrets. Blood is a potent sorcerous tool, of course, but flesh… in flesh there is a strange sort of magic, I have found. I have never tried it at length of course, being no savage. But, needs must when the devils drive, eh?’ Then, he dropped the quivering shred of muscle into his gaping jaws. Chewing, he watched as the assassin thrashed and snarled. Swallowing, he said, ‘Nothing yet. Well, we have plenty of time.’ He raised the blade, and bent to extract another piece.

Days flowed into weeks. Every day W’soran ate a bit more of his would-be killer, working his way up from soles to crown. As his teeth tore the tough flesh, as his tools flayed the thrashing body, he sucked out every secret contained in the Strigoi’s mind, all save one. One secret, and one alone, the Strigoi took into oblivion with him — the name of whoever had sent him and his fellows to murder W’soran. W’soran was forced to admit that his prisoner might not have known it.

The Strigoi had screamed many names, true, in his torment, but none bore the ring of authenticity. The names of Strigoi nobles and Lahmian courtesans, of village headmen and kings; hundreds of enemies, rather than simply one, and for a brief moment W’soran contemplated conspiracy. It had been a conspiracy that had driven him from Mahrak, and a conspiracy that had ruined him in Mourkain, so why not another?

But things were different now. A conspiracy required order and necessity to function — only one of those things was evident in the incident. All that remained were furtive facts. Someone required his death, and they had acted on it. They would try again, that much he was certain of. But who had made the move? Whose game was this?

Webs were spun within webs, overlapping and interconnected. A complex arrangement of action and reaction, a murderous geometry that caused an ache in his skull — even as it raised more questions. How had the assassins bypassed his defences? How long had they been in his citadel? The last had seemed far too familiar with the hidden places of the mountain to be a new visitant.

W’soran sprawled on his chair — his throne, part of him whispered, for where else would he make his throne room but his laboratory? — and stared unseeing at the ruins of the assassin. He stroked his bloody chin, trying to puzzle out the problem. But for every strand he teased out, two more became knotted. It was Neferata’s way to attack openly if only to drive in the subtle blade, thus, the orcs to distract him and the assassins to kill him. But why use Strigoi, when her handmaidens were more effective killers, unless she intended to throw suspicion elsewhere?

But, she would know. She would know that W’soran would suspect such, and thus would not bother. So, the assassins were sent by someone else. Ushoran, then, but Ushoran was not fool enough to attack so haphazardly. No, Ushoran wouldn’t have sent two assassins, or even twelve. He’d have sent hundreds. Unless he knew that W’soran would suspect Neferata, and was trying to pit his enemies into open battle against one another.

W’soran hissed and dug his claws into his scalp, as if to extract all of his suspicions and toss them aside. He had to know. If he did not know — if he made a move, and it was wrong, the game was lost. When Ullo arrived a week later, W’soran realised that, intentional or not, he had been distracted and that the game had continued without him.

The blunt-headed Strigoi burst into his laboratory, trailed by acolytes and crooked servants, stalking forward in the face of Melkhior’s shouted protests. W’soran had ordered that he not be disturbed, and for once, Melkhior had obeyed him unquestioningly. Ullo brushed him aside in a casual display of strength and tossed something onto the ground at W’soran’s feet.

W’soran’s good eye narrowed as he peered at the thing. He recognised it easily enough — it was Tarhos’s hook, badly cracked, scorched and stained. Given its condition, he doubted that there was much left of its owner. ‘ That does not bode well,’ he murmured. His gaze flickered up to Ullo. ‘What happened?’

‘Abhorash happened,’ Ullo snarled. ‘While you’ve been busy chasing shadows, Ushoran has launched a full scale assault on our borders. Every pass and every valley we hold is under siege, sorcerer!’

‘I knew it,’ Melkhior crowed. ‘I knew it. It was a distraction — no, a prelude!’ He pounded the air with his fists. ‘It was Ushoran, master. He has declared open war on us — on Vorag!’

‘Has he? I wonder…’ W’soran stroked his chin and looked down at the hook. Gingerly, he bent and retrieved it, letting it dangle from one long finger. ‘It stinks of magic. One of his false Mortuary Cult members did for the brute, I assume?’

‘Not just any member. Arpad said it was Morath himself,’ Ullo growled.

W’soran stiffened. ‘Well… well, well, well . And where is Arpad now?’

‘Attempting to save our little empire, sorcerer,’ Ullo snapped, crossing his arms. ‘Just as I was — I only returned to bring word and to see if I could dislodge your rump from this musty hole. We must act and soon, or everything we’ve won these past few years will be gone.’

‘And we can’t have that, can we,’ W’soran grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. ‘Fine then, to war once more, I suppose.’

‘Not just war. It is time, master,’ Melkhior said. He turned and began barking orders at the other acolytes. ‘It is time to teach our enemies what fear truly is. Urdek, Gavok, ready our forces! Today, the sons of W’soran march to Mourkain and throw the pretender from his throne. Spiro, send word to the east, and recall Vorag — let him know what is happening and that he must return! Malang, send riders to our envoys to bring their forces home-’

‘Stop,’ W’soran said, raising his hand. The acolytes froze, like mice sighted by a hawk. All save Melkhior, who turned, a look of confusion on his grotesque features.

‘Master, what is it?’

‘I need only two. Urdek, Malang, you will come with me. The rest of you will stay here and oversee the citadel. Melkhior, as ever, is castellan.’ He stepped away from his throne and caressed Melkhior’s cheek. ‘You are more useful here, my son. Guard well my tomes and house, and I will reward you upon my return.’

‘I can serve you better in the field. Urdek and Malang lack my power,’ Melkhior protested. ‘They are nothing — weaklings!’

‘You are more powerful. But you lack their skill,’ W’soran said. ‘You are as much a brute as Tarhos was. You smash when you should slice, and roar when you should retreat. Thus, you will stay here, where your power will more than make up for their absence.’ It was a bald lie. Melkhior had skill aplenty, but what he lacked was subtlety.

His apprentice had been pushing for war for months; longer even, when W’soran stopped to consider it. Once again, he ruminated ruefully on his choice of his servants. Melkhior lacked the temperament for sorcery. He was powerful, true, and a sponge for the stuff of magic. When he honestly reflected on the matter, W’soran suspected that the former nobleman was almost his equal in that regard. But he could not be trusted. Not on the battlefield.

Melkhior opened his mouth to respond and W’soran grabbed his jaw in a painful grip. ‘I’d advise you to make your next words ones of gratitude, my son,’ he murmured.

‘What of Vorag?’ Ullo asked.

‘What about him?’ W’soran asked, not breaking eye contact with Melkhior. ‘This is why he left us here, if you’ll recall. I’d hate for him to think that he could not trust us.’ He released Melkhior and his apprentice stumbled back into his fellows. ‘Where are your fellows, Ullo? Those who are not heroically engaged in the defence of our mighty empire? Have they flown the coop, looking for safer pastures, or are they with us still?’