Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘Unless you’ve stuck a knife in their guts, they’re still here,’ Ullo said.

‘Wonderful. Let us go give them a rousing speech, yes? Get them ready for the war they claim to desire, eh?’ He bustled past his acolytes, leading Ullo out of the laboratory. ‘Come, Ullo, come!’

W’soran had lost track of those Strigoi still in the mountain. He left such details up to Melkhior these days. Most, easily bored by what amounted to garrison duty, made up missions for themselves, and led savage raids on what could loosely be termed ‘enemy territory’. The rest, not really interested in conquest or glory so much as in not being under Ushoran’s thumb, lounged about the mountain, getting on his nerves or making idiotic demands of his acolytes when they weren’t engaging in barbaric duels or slipshod intrigue.

Those ones in particular would make excellent shock troops, he thought. When he broached the suggestion as they left the laboratory and descended to the section of the mountain that the Strigoi had made their own, Ullo agreed. They found the bulk of them easily enough. One of the larger caverns had been converted into a crude facsimile of the great arena of Mourkain, where captured beasts and prisoners of war fought for the amusement of the populace. It had been easy enough — the Strigoi weren’t alone in their love of blood sports, for the skaven had had their own fighting pits, and this cavern had once rung with the squeals of excited skaven as they watched rat ogres tear apart slaves or captured trolls.

It rang now with the bellows of bloodthirsty Strigoi, who crouched on the wide, brazier-lined walkway ringing the open pit, watching and wagering on the vicious battle below. One of their own bounded through small hills of offal and decomposing corpses to meet a charging monster. It resembled a wolf, albeit a wolf that had been inflated and stretched over too-long bones and the wrong kind, at that. Matted hair, stiff with blood, sprouted from it, and hunks of raw, pink flesh hung from its frame like some form of grotesque decoration. There was something of the ape in it, and something almost daemonic as well, and the cavern seemed to quake with its howls as it charged to meet the Strigoi. The vampire ducked beneath a wild swipe and slithered around the brute, finding purchase on its back. Fangs flashed, and the wolf-thing screamed chillingly as it reared and clawed for its attacker.

‘Another northern freak,’ Ullo muttered as he led W’soran up onto the viewing platform. ‘More of them drift south every season. I wonder where they found that one.’

W’soran could tell that the wolf-thing stank of dark magic, even from such a distance. A foulness akin to that which clung to the abn-i-khat amulets still dangling from his neck seemed to seep from the beast’s pores. With a roar, it ripped the Strigoi from its back and sent the vampire tumbling across the pit. After shaking itself, it loped forward with an awkward gait, like something not quite sure whether it should be running on two legs or four.

‘There’re whole packs of these things north of the mountains. Every time the witch-moon rises, they boil out of the wastes like locusts. Damn things refuse to die, even if you rip them apart,’ one of the nearby Strigoi said. He was a handsome creature, as such things were judged, with a well-tended scalp lock and cunning features. ‘Took three of us just to knock that one out and drag it back here for a bit of entertainment. We’ve been throwing it slaves, but that got dull.’

W’soran grunted, still watching the battle below. ‘Which one are you?’

‘Tarka of Tzimtzi, at your service, great one,’ the Strigoi said as he made a courtly bow. ‘Newly arrived from the demesnes of Mourkain.’

‘Courtier,’ Ullo spat. ‘Thin-blooded fop.’

‘Ah, Ullo, the others mentioned you were here as well — it’s like no time has passed at all since I last saw you. How did your little military coup go? Not well, I’m guessing.’ Tarka grinned mockingly, and Ullo hunched towards him. W’soran interposed an arm.

‘No better than your attempt to poison Ushoran,’ Ullo said, stepping back and dropping his hand to his sword pommel. ‘I heard he drained the doxy and returned her to you after the fact, with his compliments.’

W’soran watched the byplay, amused. The Court of Mourkain was a snake-pit in more ways than one. Ushoran had used the blood-kiss as a reward for service and had turned hundreds of nobles in his reign, and they in turn had done the same. Assassination had quickly become the preferred method of social and political advancement among the undying aristocracy. Immortality made inheritance a tricky prospect, even among a people for whom duelling was a common solution to a variety of problems.

‘Well, aren’t we a pretty party of traitors, then,’ Tarka said. ‘Unless Vorag sets his primitive fundament on the throne, then, of course we’re heroes.’ His dark eyes found W’soran. ‘And where is Vorag, by the by? I’ve been here three years without seeing either hide or hair of the Bloodytooth.’

‘I’d consider that three years well spent,’ W’soran said. ‘But the time has come to earn your keep — aye, you and the rest of these fools.’ He gestured to the other Strigoi, who were now watching them, as opposed to the fight below.

‘Oh?’ Tarka asked. ‘And just how will we be doing that? And, who are you to suggest it? You are no more master here than I am,’ he continued, smiling slightly. The other Strigoi drew closer. Down below, the vampire fighting the wolf-thing had regained his perch on the creature’s back and his hands fastened on its jaws, prying them open. With a heave of mighty shoulders, the Strigoi snapped the brute’s neck.

W’soran cocked his head. ‘I? I am the ruler of the citadel. I am your host, and I’d say you owe me a debt of hospitality, if not loyalty.’

‘A debt of hospitality, you say?’ Tarka asked, turning slightly to include the other Strigoi. ‘Ruler of this citadel, you say? I came here to serve the Bloodytooth, not some withered old bat! I know you, W’soran. They say you fled from Mourkain with your tail between your legs, looking for sanctuary in Vorag’s coterie.’

W’soran laughed softly. Ullo had stepped back, his gaze calculating. The Strigoi had become complacent in their sanctuary. That was partly his fault, he knew. He was used to the unquestioning obedience of the dead, and had not considered that the Strigoi might, in their own, unsubtle way, have plans of their own. Those who desired battle were out defending his empire already; all that was left here were those who desired to be on the winning side, but did not necessarily desire to contribute to that victory.

Thin-blooded fops, cowards and conspirators, these were to be his generals. W’soran exposed his fangs, wondering if, in some odd way, this had been Ushoran’s plan all along. Ushoran had, in one of his thousand disguises, fomented rebellions and conspiracies aplenty in Lahmia, and then crushed them. Perhaps this was something similar — a centuries-long purging of untrustworthy elements, now that their use had ended. That alone proved Ushoran as the most deadly of those who pitted themselves against him. Neferata would butcher hundreds in a moment of spite, but she was incapable of the pragmatic bleeding that Mourkain had required. But Ushoran thought like W’soran. He saw his followers for what they were — tools. Tools to be discarded or re-forged as circumstances dictated.

He dismissed the thought a moment later. Even if it were true, there was no help for it now. One worked with what one had. He met Tarka’s gaze and inclined his head. ‘As you say, but Vorag left this citadel in my command. And I have built it into the centre of a growing empire, an empire of which you are subjects, an empire I am calling upon you to defend.’