Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

He straightened in his saddle as they closed and gave a ringing shriek. It was answered by several nearby packs of ghouls, all clad in primitive armour and adorned with coarse tattoos and brands. They wielded rough weapons — femurs with blades hammered through them, maces crafted from skulls, and crude digging implements repurposed for battle. Among them were several of the large war-ghouls of his own creation, and it was these beasts who answered his call and chivvied forward their smaller pack-mates. They loped towards the riders at W’soran’s cry, seeking to cut them off.

W’soran caught up with them a moment later. He jerked his mount to a trot as his wights thundered ahead, crashing into the enemy. When a hole had been punched through their ranks, he let his mount lunge forward through it. His sword licked out, lopping off the top of a rider’s head, and then he was face to face with Gashnag.

He’d been infamous among the court for his vanity and a maddening obsession with Cathayan silks and foreign trinkets. A slim creature, golden-haired and prone to fits of poetry, he’d nonetheless earned a reputation as a fierce duellist and ruthless killer. That was one of the reasons that W’soran had seen fit to employ both Gashnag and his cousin, Zandor, as his agents against Neferata’s machinations in better times. Zandor had perished at the Silver Pinnacle, but Gashnag seemed to have come into his own. His heavy helm had been struck from his head, and his hair was unbound, whipping about his thin face. His armour was black, but edged in gold and of fine craftsmanship. Intricate scenes from Mourkain’s history had been engraved on his cuirass and his pauldrons bore grimacing devil faces. His eyes widened as he caught sight of W’soran.

‘You,’ he snarled. His sword snapped out, hissing as it sliced the air. W’soran easily avoided the blow, jerking back in his saddle. Their mounts circled each other as they traded blows, their blades crashing together. ‘Traitor,’ Gashnag shouted.

‘Opportunist,’ W’soran corrected, scoring his opponent’s cuirass with a swift blow. Gashnag grimaced and aimed a slash at W’soran’s head. W’soran interposed his blade and pressed the blow aside. ‘If Ushoran put you in command, I must say I made the right decision. Not quite like those epic poems of the glorious wars waged by ancient Strigu, eh, Gashnag?’

They spun apart. The wights continued to fight with Gashnag’s men. Gashnag jerked his mount around and the horse smashed into W’soran’s bony steed. W’soran squawked as the other vampire slashed the straps of his saddle. He toppled from the top of his steed with a distinct lack of grace and crashed to the ground. Trapped by the thicket of stomping hooves that surrounded him, he instinctively curled into a ball, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. Nevertheless, sharp-edged hooves struck him and he crawled through the mud, trying to get clear.

A pair of hooves thudded down on his back and pain rippled the length of his spine. The hooves lifted, and W’soran flung himself onto his back, hands out-thrust. He spat a guttural stream of words and the rearing horse squealed as javelins of purest darkness pierced its belly and chest. It toppled like a cut tree, carrying Gashnag to the ground with it.

W’soran rose. He winced as his spine popped, realigning itself. Gashnag kicked his way free of his dying mount and rose to his feet, hands twitching as he sought the sword he’d dropped. Then he thrust out a hand and barked strange syllables. The air seemed to ignite and W’soran stepped back as his robes caught fire. Hissing in anger, he swept his arms out sharply, snuffing the fire. ‘That’s a new trick,’ he said.

‘I’ve got more than that,’ Gashnag said. ‘Some of us are not fools, old man. And sorcery isn’t so difficult when you’ve got centuries to learn it in.’ Then, as if to twist the knife, he added, ‘And Morath is a much better tutor than you ever were.’

W’soran snorted. ‘You always were an arrogant fool, Gashnag.’ Gashnag gestured and more fire splashed across the air mere inches from W’soran’s face. Behind him, the corpse of his steed flopped over and twitched. ‘Sorcery is not a bludgeon, it is a scalpel.’ The horse’s hide split, peeling away, and its carcass opened like a flower as bones and organs uncurled and spread. Gashnag shouted crooked words, trying to hook the winds of magic to his will, to pierce W’soran’s mystical defences. ‘It is a subtle art, requiring skill and will in equal measure — neither of which you possess in any great quantity.’

The flopping horse-flower fell upon Gashnag with a convulsive heave, hunks of flesh and chains of bone wrapping about the vampire’s limbs. He yelped in surprise, and turned. He tore at the thing as it bore him down. Spears of splintered bone punched through his shoulder and belly, piercing his mail with sorcerous strength as slithering organs sought to tighten about his head. W’soran watched intently, his hands clasped before him.

‘To manipulate the winds of death requires the temperament of an artist, and the patience of a philosopher. Any fool can learn to bark a few incantations, if his blood is sour with the stuff of dark magic. Ushoran’s bite might have given you the ability, but you will never know the true power of it all,’ he said, raising his arm. The effluvium of the battlefield rose at his gesture — blood and offal swirled about him in a foul cyclone. The bodies of Gashnag’s men twitched and jerked, rising. ‘Not even Morath will know, for he is too frightened to see. He fears the power, when he should embrace it.’

Howling ghosts rose from the blood-soaked soil, both ancient spirits from battles centuries old and the recent dead, and sped towards W’soran. He glanced at them, seeing the black strands of magic which bound them to a trio of approaching riders. They bore the tattoos of the Mortuary Cult, and they wore flapping furs and bronze skull masks. They galloped towards him on their stubby Strigoi steeds, gesticulating and shouting, racing to Gashnag’s aid. Gashnag tore at the thing holding him captive, struggling to get free, as the spectral host surrounded W’soran and slid over him like shadows, unable to reach him thanks to the swirling cloud of battlefield detritus. W’soran looked around without concern, ignoring the moaning phantoms.

The battle had collapsed into a disorganised melee. The living fled from the dead, and the Strigoi lines had collapsed. His followers were pursuing their defeated foes with gleeful howls or grave silence. He smiled as the spirits of the departed approached him, followed by their summoners. They needed to salvage Gashnag. Ushoran likely didn’t have many generals left, given the defections and deaths. Not that Gashnag was much of a general. W’soran chuckled. In a way, letting the vampire escape would hurt Ushoran more than help him. ‘Fine,’ he said, decision made. ‘A trade, then.’

He cocked a hand and then snapped it forward, as if hurling a spear. The typhoon of blood and offal swirling about him shot forward at the gesture, hurtling towards the approaching necromancers like a rain of gruesome arrows. Bits of bone and boiling blood pierced their bodies, plucking them from their saddles and dropping them to the ground. ‘Three talented students for a brute, a good trade, eh, Gashnag?’ he said, glancing at the vampire as he tore his way free of the horse carcass. They locked eyes through the swirling cloud of ghosts and W’soran said, ‘Run away, Gashnag. Tell Ushoran that I’ll be along shortly.’

Gashnag ran. Not quite with his tail tucked between his legs, but close enough. He sprinted for the trees, avoiding battle, joining his men in harried flight. W’soran raised a hand and caught the loose threads that bound the ghosts that continued to swirl about him like a semi-sentient fog bank, and he stalked towards the trio of necromancers. All three were quite dead, and he examined the fading glimmer of the magic that had inundated them. ‘Yes, three for one is quite fair, I think,’ he said.