Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘Under your command,’ another Strigoi barked.

‘Who better?’ W’soran asked.

‘Anyone,’ Tarka said bluntly. ‘You are no warrior — you are barely a castellan. We see more of your bat-faced servant than we do of you, W’soran. You hide in your stinking lair, or scuttle about on the fringes, clinging to Ullo’s skirts. You are no Strigoi.’ Tarka spat, and a gobbet of bloody spittle struck the hem of W’soran’s robes. ‘You are barely a man. Even that witch, Neferata, is more of a warrior than you.’

‘Then why did you not go to Silver Pinnacle to serve her?’ W’soran asked. He smiled thinly. ‘I’ll tell you why — she wouldn’t have you. Neferata has no use for creatures like you. But I do.’

‘Maybe we have none for you,’ Tarka said. His smile was wolfish. The other Strigoi were watching intently. The one from the arena had joined them, covered in the wolf-thing’s foul-smelling blood. Belatedly, W’soran noticed the necklace of fangs dangling from Tarka’s neck, and a flutter of amusement passed through him.

He had been expecting this, or something like it, for some time. Vorag’s authority had grown distant and thin, and not every Strigoi possessed Ullo’s remarkable strain of competent self-interest. Vampires had short memories when it came to authority. Unless it was obvious and undeniable, they inevitably attempted to wriggle out from under it.

‘Oh, I’m sure you could find some use for my poor self. Old W’soran knows a few tricks,’ he said. He glanced at the crowd of Strigoi. There were more than a dozen of them. He didn’t need all of them, certainly not Tarka. ‘For instance…’

Tarka lunged, as quickly as a shadow. W’soran completed his surreptitious gesture regardless, and caught the Strigoi’s throat with his free hand. The Strigoi’s eyes widened as he realised just how strong the withered vampire was. In the arena pit, the mounds and heaps of dead flesh began to quiver. W’soran turned and Tarka’s feet scraped the palisade helplessly as he found himself dangling over the edge of the pit, W’soran’s claws hooked into the meat of his throat.

Below him, the dead had risen. They circled beneath the helpless Tarka like jackals on the hunt. He thrashed in W’soran’s grip, but couldn’t break it. W’soran ignored his flailing and focused on the other Strigoi. ‘Yes, I know a few tricks. And those tricks are all that keep you safe in these lands. Our enemies circle us, like the dead below circle this fool, waiting to rip him lip to loin. You think to challenge me for leadership? I welcome your challenges. If one of you would prefer to take the burden of leadership from my poor, tired shoulders, let him step forward. If one of you has tricks comparable to mine, if one of you can wring loyalty from the great majority of the charnel field, by all means, step forward .’ He shook Tarka for emphasis. With his good eye, W’soran glared at the muttering Strigoi. ‘Well? Who’s it going to be, my fine, brave lords of Mourkain, hmm? Who steps forward, eh? Just Tarka, then — perhaps he speaks for you all, eh?’ His gaze slowly slid to the red features of Tarka, who hammered at W’soran’s forearm with no more effect than a feather beating against an iron bar.

‘Did you think me weak, Tarka? Did you think to add poor, old W’soran’s fangs to your collection? Is that what you thought? ’ he snarled, shaking the Strigoi. ‘In my youth, I was something of a teacher — a humble tutor to aristocrats and the puling whelps of kings. You are certainly older, but definitely no wiser than those scheming brats, so I will teach you as I taught them. Lesson the first… I am to you as you are to those rotting carcasses below. I am the first and in me is the strength of ages. I have killed nations and drained the lifeblood of empires, while you are nothing more than fleas in the hide of history. Lesson the second… never forget lesson the first, or I shall dispense with you as easily… as… this .’ So saying, W’soran crushed Tarka’s throat, rendering it a gory, gaping ruin. Gagging and choking, the Strigoi slid from his grip and crashed to the arena floor.

The dead, as one, peered up at their master. W’soran gestured, as a man might to his faithful hounds, and they fell upon the wounded Strigoi. Tarka fought as best he could with broken bones and gaping throat, but when the wolf-thing fell upon him, its horrid corpse sparking with unnatural vitality, the fight ended abruptly as Tarka was scattered across the arena.

W’soran retracted his bloody arm and examined it. ‘Today’s lesson is ended. We march at dusk, my lords. See that you are ready, or we shall have another lesson.’

The City of Magritta

(Year -1017 Imperial Calendar)

W’soran lashed out with his blade, decapitating the guard and sending his body spinning aside. ‘Onward,’ he shrieked, gesturing for his acolytes and the dead legions that followed them to advance after him as he stormed up the great marble steps of the Temple of Myrmidia.

The very stones of the city of Magritta howled in agony as his undead legions stormed through the streets and washed the sun-baked bricks with blood. On his right, Zoar tore the head from another temple-guard and lashed the ranks of panicking city militia with sorcerous fire. The Yaghur howled with laughter as he killed men by the dozens.

W’soran raced up the stairs, brushing aside the guards in their archaic bronze armour and robes. He had spent the past three decades killing many such men — in Araby, Tilea and now Estalia, where he was known as Nourgul the Wamphyro. The gods of Nehekhara might be dead and dust, but there were newer gods with newer wisdoms, and W’soran wanted them. He had spent the years since his expulsion from Lashiek hunting secrets. Nagash, he knew, had learned some of his wisdom from the druchii. They had bargained dark secrets for sanctuary, for all the good it had done them, in the end.

He had run across several members of that race in his hunt. None had been particularly forthcoming, but he had gotten what he needed regardless. As he would claim what he desired this time, even if every follower of this paltry hill-goddess thought to stand in his path. He had defeated the silent stranglers of the Black Oasis in Araby, and slaughtered the corsair-witches of the Sartosian reefs to claim the secrets they guarded, and he would do the same to these so-called Myrmidons. It was said that the Temple of Myrmidia housed one of the greatest libraries in the known world. It was a storehouse of knowledge, and W’soran intended to plunder it.

A warrior met him as he ascended the last stair, leaping heroically to the attack, his wide-bladed spear sliding across the surface of his shield in a screech of metal-on-metal. W’soran caught the head of the spear and flung it to the side, even as his blade crashed into the guard’s shield. The man staggered back, off balance, and W’soran lashed out with a kick. Metal buckled and the warrior was flung backwards. He slumped against the doors and let his dented and crumpled shield roll free of his grip. With a groan, he drew the short, leaf-shaped blade sheathed at his hip and staggered to his feet, sword in one hand and spear in the other.

W’soran gave him no time to recover. He lunged beneath the spear thrust and batted aside the short sword, and sank his fangs into the man’s thick neck. With a twist of his head, he ripped out the guard’s throat and sprang over the body as it fell. The doors had been blown off their hinges by an earlier sorcerous blast, and he easily stepped inside.

The central forecourt of the temple was massive. Vast marble columns rose upwards, holding up the great domed roof. A giant statue of the goddess herself stood sentinel in the centre of the forecourt, leaning on a shield and clutching a heavy spear, an eagle on her shoulder, its wings fully spread. Her eyes seemed to glare down at W’soran and he grinned.