Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘We,’ Abhorash said.

Crookback Mountain

(Year -263 Imperial Calendar)

W’soran cursed as the hooves of his steed slipped and slid on the ice encrusting the rocky path leading to the entrance to his citadel. The wind howled through the crags, and sheets of snow and frozen rain pelted him as he hunched forward in his saddle, his tattered cloak providing little protection. He did not feel the cold, but the snow and ice made it hard to move and even harder to see. Winter in the mountains was never pleasant, even for a being such as him.

The difficulty in reaching his citadel had only added to the pile of steadily building frustrations that threatened, at times, to crush him under. It had all been going so well, and, to an extent, it still was. His army maintained its position, and had thrown back a number of Strigoi assaults. Palisades had been erected and trees cleared. The temporary camp had become a fortified bulwark, a wedge of influence in enemy territory. He was forced to trust that Ullo and the others could hold it, especially given the lack of reinforcements.

Vaal the Thirst had not rejoined them. His forces had been ambushed by unknown enemies in the hills to the west. Lukas, the other Strigoi outrider, had found Vaal’s head on a spear, standing amidst the detritus of his forces. Lukas’s own force had been harried all the way back to the main body of the army, attacked by small parties of the dead. W’soran recognised Neferata’s handiwork, though not a single quicksilver killer had been seen. There was something going on in the west, something she didn’t want him to see. Perhaps she was simply shielding the flanks of the tribes of the lowlands, whose barbarous warbands were streaming into Strigoi territory with a relentless savagery. Or perhaps she was finally mobilising her own forces for the final battle. She could smell the scent of Ushoran’s weakness as well as he could, though she had no hope of defeating Nagash in a direct confrontation.

You had your chance, witch. It’s my turn , he thought sourly. Or, it would have been, had he not been dragged from the forefront of battle by the negligence of his supposedly capable castellan. Melkhior had much to answer for. He had sent no reinforcements, and the citadel was woefully undefended, as evidenced by the lack of any sentries accosting him upon his arrival. For a moment, he ruefully contemplated the lack of exterior fortifications. He had never considered them necessary, despite Melkhior’s protestations to the contrary. There were defences within, and strong ones at that, but he had never thought it necessary to add any to the slopes of the mountain. Why advertise the citadel’s presence, after all?

It wasn’t only a matter of men and materials; the proceeds from the mines had dried to a trickle and the mineral wealth that had bought him the loyalty of certain tribes and served to bribe others into inactivity was threatened. It was all his agents could do to keep the hillmen of the Vaults from attacking the Draesca while their king was away. If the gold stopped coming, they would attack and a third of his army would melt away as Chown took his men home to defend his kingdom.

Everything hinged on the mines and the reinforcements. He had thrown everything into this attack, had planned and prepared for years for this moment, and now it was all teetering on the edge of a knife held by a dithering, twitching fool. He angrily scrubbed snow from his shoulders. He’d known Melkhior was too unreliable to serve him in battle, but had hoped that he’d prove an adequate major domo. Instead, he was beginning to regret ever having bothered to turn the idiot Strigoi in the first place. What a waste of blood and power that was turning out to be…

The only forces W’soran had brought with him were his bodyguard of wights. The dead chieftains looked about slowly as they rode into the crooked cavern that marked the entrance to the mountain and acted as the forecourt of the citadel. Scorch marks marred the cavern walls and debris covered the rough floor — bits of bone and armour, and patches of melted rock.

Something had happened.

Perhaps reinforcements hadn’t come because there were none to send. W’soran growled deep in his throat. What foolishness had his acolyte perpetrated?

Eyes were on him, and he brought his dead steed to a halt in the centre of the forecourt. He looked around. There were no torches lit, no burning skulls to greet him. Leather brushed against rock. W’soran’s gaze rotated. Thousands of bats clustered on the ceiling of the cavern, their tiny bright eyes staring down at him. Hairy bodies squirmed against one another in a living carpet of teeth and wings, and he wondered at their number. There had always been bats in the deeper reaches of the mountain, but never so many, he thought.

He grunted and swung out of his saddle. His wights followed suit, drawing their weapons even as their feet touched the floor. W’soran didn’t bother to draw his scimitar. He looked to the wide flat steps that curved up into the mountain. The slap of leather soles on stone sounded dully out of the darkness. A moment later a cloaked shape stood at the summit of the steps, glaring down at them. W’soran frowned.

‘What is this? No happy greeting from student to master? No cry of welcome, no reception befitting my status?’ he called out harshly. There was no reply. Irritated, W’soran raised his hand and a soft corona of sickly light formed above his upturned palm. Light washed over the cavern and the shape at the summit threw up a hand to cover its eyes.

‘I expect an answer when I ask a question, Melkhior,’ W’soran said. ‘Or have you forgotten all of your duties, rather than just a few?’

‘Master, is that you?’ Melkhior rasped, peering down at them.

‘Who else would it be, you idiot?’

Melkhior visibly hesitated. W’soran’s good eye widened slightly as he caught sight of the creatures behind Melkhior. He thought they were ghouls at first, but then saw that they weren’t alive, in the traditional sense. Stained wrappings were wound round their blistered and scarred flesh, and their faces were a gruesome blend of man, beast and corpse. They seemed to be caught between life and death, and they reeked of wrongness . Their mottled flesh blended easily with the darkness and they crept forward around Melkhior in a protective manner. W’soran felt a sting of pleasure at the thought that Melkhior had created them. Perhaps he wasn’t as much of an idiot as he seemed.

‘I see you have been keeping up with your studies, at least,’ he said.

Melkhior’s hand fell to the flat skull of the closest of the beasts, and he stroked it idly. He seemed to relax slightly. ‘There have been… incidents, in your absence, master.’

‘So I see,’ W’soran said, gesturing about him. ‘What has happened?’

‘The ratkin have returned,’ Melkhior said bluntly.

W’soran hissed. He looked about him. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the signs of collapsed tunnels in the walls and floor of the cavern. He had half-expected it, but not so soon. Not now, when he couldn’t deal with them as they deserved. ‘When?’ he asked, starting up the stairs.

‘Months ago,’ Melkhior said. He watched his master approach, a strange expression on his face. ‘But their scouts infiltrated the mountain a year ago or more. We didn’t detect them until too late.’ He hesitated. ‘They freed your… pet.’

‘Iskar is still alive?’ W’soran asked, bemused. ‘Fascinating, I’d have thought he’d have died in my absence.’ Then Melkhior’s words fully sank in and he snarled. ‘Freed him? How, when?’

There was another hesitation. Then, Melkhior said, ‘Two years ago.’