Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘Two…’ W’soran repeated and shook his head.

‘They snuck in and destroyed the laboratories. They freed him then. At first, I thought he’d died, but we never found a carcass…’ He stopped and shrank back as W’soran glared at him.

‘My laboratory,’ W’soran said, his hands clenching. Fury built in him. ‘What of the vaults?’ In the aftermath of the first attempt on his life, W’soran had realised that his most valuable treasures — the carefully hoarded books and scrolls of dark design upon which his power was based — were vulnerable to theft or destruction, as they were. They had been copied again and again by his acolytes, and it was true that if they were lost, the knowledge in them could be recovered, but there was a malevolent power in those original manuscripts that could not be replaced. Not wishing to risk it, he had overseen the construction of a specially prepared vault, guarded around the clock by unsleeping guardians.

‘Safe, master, I swear,’ Melkhior said quickly. ‘They are under guard day and night. I created the perfect guardian to replace those destroyed by the skaven. Come, come! I will show you!’ He spun about and started up the steps, his creations scuttling after him. W’soran watched him flee, and then, more slowly, followed.

The citadel bore mute testimony to Melkhior’s assertions. W’soran had no real cause to doubt his acolyte’s word, but he knew better than to trust him. He knew better than to trust any man, servant or no. Nevertheless, the citadel showed signs of conflict that put him in mind of those early months just after their arrival, when they had battled the skaven for control of the mountain. He saw patrols of battered skeletons, much repaired and moving slowly. Rotting zombies crafted from orcs and men guarded the entrances to the side caverns, and he saw more of Melkhior’s creations prowling the side-tunnels and darkened ledges. But not many — when he had marched for Strigos, Crookback Mountain had echoed with the sounds of industry and marching dead men. Now, an eerie, empty silence hung about the place and his every step seemed to echo and re-echo.

‘Where are the legions I left for you, Melkhior? Where are your fellow acolytes?’ he asked.

‘Dead — the final death,’ Melkhior said, not looking at his master. ‘The skaven returned with deadly weapons, master… weapons that spat sorcerous fire and monstrous creatures that tore vampires apart as if they were nothing more than men. You cannot resurrect ash and char. I have… had to make do.’

‘All of them, Melkhior?’ W’soran pressed.

‘Those who did not die in the destruction of the laboratory fell in battle,’ Melkhior said. He paused and glanced over his shoulder at W’soran. ‘I am your only remaining apprentice, master.’

‘All save those who accompanied me to war, yes. How unfortunate,’ W’soran murmured. Melkhior was lying. He knew it as surely as he knew that the other vampire had gone mad. He could smell that madness seeping from Melkhior’s pores. W’soran recognised it, for he had smelled the same stink on Ushoran and on Neferata — the madness of certainty, of a single overwhelming design. If W’soran had felt even the slightest amount of affection for his acolytes, he might have been angrier. As it was, he only required one to see to the citadel — if Melkhior had elected himself to be that one, fine.

Melkhior appeared not to have heard W’soran’s insult. ‘But the citadel remains in our hands, master. I have thrown back the skaven every time they have attacked, no matter the losses. I have scoured their old warrens with armies made from their own dead and I have filled the deep tunnels with my eyes and ears…’ Here, he gestured upwards. W’soran looked up and saw more bats, all watching him. ‘I have done all that you asked of me, master.’

‘Except supply me with reinforcements,’ W’soran said. He stopped and turned. ‘I would see my laboratory,’ he said, stepping through an archway.

Melkhior hurried after him. ‘It is dangerous, master. The abn-i-khat has tainted everything, and your experiments-’ he began, reaching for W’soran, who caused him to freeze in place with a glare. As Melkhior shrank back, W’soran turned back to the great doors that marked where his laboratory had once been.

‘My experiments are of no concern. I can recreate them, in time. What of our other guest?’

‘Other…?’

‘The Lahmian witch, Melkhior,’ W’soran said, pressing one hand to the doors. The amulets around his neck grew warm and they caused his flesh to tingle where they touched it. He could smell the essence of abn-i-khat beyond the doors. The scent was almost overpowering, and the old need rippled through him, making it hard to think. ‘Or was she destroyed as well?’ he continued.

His curiosity was almost impossible to ignore — what sort of weapon had the skaven used to destroy his labs? More — how had they gotten in? His labs had been warded both inside and out, the very stones wrapped in layers of sorcery. The doors bulged slightly, though they had been chained shut. The thick wood was scorched and the metal warped by a great heat, a heat which was still present. W’soran drew his hand back and examined the raised blisters on his palm with some interest. Through the cracks in the door, he could see a strange flickering light, and there was an eerie tang to the air. Everything seemed greasy, as if it were covered in a thin film of… something.

‘I… don’t know,’ Melkhior said. ‘There were fires — fires that still burn! Not even we could stand it for long. The wyrdstone fires burn without consuming, master, and I can find no way to extinguish those flames. I have had to seal it off.’

W’soran stepped back from the doors. He turned to Melkhior. ‘You disappoint me. The vaults,’ he snapped. Melkhior scuttled away, and W’soran followed. ‘What of the mines?’ he asked.

‘The orcs grow rebellious,’ Melkhior grunted. ‘There is a band of them loose in the bowels of the mine, led by a creature called Dork.’ Melkhior shuddered. ‘It broke free of the work gangs in the last revolt. It was whelped here, I think. Grown in the dark like a mushroom, and raised in the mines. It — it is not like the others.’

‘What do you mean?’ W’soran asked. ‘And how much trouble can one band of orcs be?’

‘More than I expected,’ Melkhior said hesitantly. He twitched. ‘The creature employs sorcery.’

‘Impossible,’ W’soran said. The orcs had shamans, but their magics were primitive, and more likely to kill the caster than an enemy.

‘He is smart. It is as if he has learned,’ Melkhior continued, as if W’soran hadn’t spoken. He shook his head. ‘I thought it was impossible for the greenskins to learn, but this beast has. It employs cunning, avoiding my patrols. Every day, more orcs vanish in the mines, freed or killed by this creature, and I do not have the resources to both find him and guard against the skaven.’ He looked at W’soran, and his expression was sour as he added, ‘Or to send you reinforcements, master.’

W’soran didn’t reply. He fingered his amulets thoughtfully, studying his acolyte. ‘Show me the vaults,’ he said.

The vault was set into a hollowed-out crag, with only one entrance, and only one purpose. The entrance was normally guarded by a coterie of wights raised specifically for that task, but they were not in evidence now. The door was crafted from stone, with a great iron pull-ring set in its centre. Melkhior moved to open it, but W’soran shoved him aside and grabbed the ring himself. He grunted as he shifted it, eliciting a grinding groan from the stones of the portal. He could feel the spells he had worked into the vault washing over him, determining his identity. Only he and his most senior acolytes were allowed within. At this point, of course, Melkhior was the only one of the latter remaining.