Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

Dork howled again, and his muscles seemed to swell. The hazy aura about him snapped into sharp focus, and W’soran was reminded of the vision he’d had of Ushoran, with Nagash’s shadow superimposed over him. For a moment, the orc, as large as he was, appeared akin to a giant crammed into a body that was three sizes too small. The cavern shuddered and great chunks of rock fell as Dork charged forward, swinging his weapons.

W’soran eeled around the first blow and twitched aside from the second as Dork’s aura sparked and snapped like an overfed fire and the green heat washed over him. He drew his blade in time to block another heavy blow, and batted aside the axe as it dug for his chest. The orc was fast — almost impossibly so. More green lightning sparked from Dork’s frame, striking the walls and floor and W’soran as well. His flesh peeled and split where the crackling energy touched him and he hissed in consternation.

‘ Crumpya ,’ Dork roared. ‘ Chopya! ’

‘I think not,’ W’soran snarled. He shoved himself back, sliding momentarily out of the orc’s reach. Dork was strong. Too strong, in fact. W’soran glared about, his mind calculating and discarding possibilities. He knew much of the greenskins, including… ‘Ah,’ he hissed. Death magic swirled about him in a black cloud as he began to draw power from every part of the cavern. Dork charged towards him, bellowing.

W’soran thrust out his arm, and a rippling bolt of black energy burst from his palm. It narrowly missed Dork, who roared in triumph and brought his weapons down on W’soran. The latter barely held back the descending blades with his scimitar, and he sank to one knee, momentarily overwhelmed by the raw, sorcerously enhanced strength of his opponent. Dork leered down at him, certain of his triumph. Then, when he saw the wide grin on his opponent’s face, the orc hesitated.

‘Yesss,’ W’soran chuckled. ‘You are a smart one.’

Behind Dork, the slave pens had fallen silent. Every single living thing, orc or otherwise, in the pens was dead, killed by the lethal magics that W’soran had hurled at them — hundreds of orcs, slain in a single moment. Dork’s jaw sagged as his gaze flickered between the pens, hunting for any signs of life. Then he turned back, his eyes glowing so brightly that W’soran was forced to cover his own.

Dork howled. And every surviving orc, those who had come with their new warboss to free their fellows, howled with him, their great jaws gaping as they gave vent to a communal scream of primal ferocity and berserk rage. The cavern began to shudder and shake. The ceiling ruptured and bats spiralled frantically as jagged chunks of stone crashed down, piercing the floor and releasing serpentine cracks that sped across the ground.

W’soran climbed to his feet. Nearby, a trio of orcs fell as their heads burst. As if that had been a signal, more orcs twitched and fell as their skulls popped. There was a growing pressure in the cavern, and W’soran’s mystically attuned senses screamed a warning. The ground beneath his feet burst, the hard stone shifting like melting ice. He turned and ran. Dork remained where he stood, a focal point for the snarling rhythms of green lightning that threatened to collapse the entire cavern.

W’soran reached the wall upon which the observation balcony sat and scrambled up it, climbing like a malformed and arthritic spider. He caught sight of a black-clad form — Melkhior — doing the same. They reached the balcony at roughly the same time, and both vaulted through the archway into the corridor beyond as a heavy fang of rock sheared the balcony away from the wall. W’soran turned and laughed wildly as around them, Crookback Mountain shook with the rage of Dork of the Red Eye tribe.

‘Did you see that, Melkhior? Did you see it? ’ he shouted, as the corridor groaned and the mountain’s guts rumbled. Smoke and dust boiled out through the archway, and grit caked them as W’soran’s wights, whom he’d left safely behind, helped them up. ‘Fascinating, eh? Impressive, wasn’t he? To have that much power in him must surely be a result of-’

‘Impressive? Impressive ,’ Melkhior hissed. He snapped forward, like a striking adder, claws digging for W’soran’s throat. ‘You nearly destroyed everything, you fool!’

W’soran caught his wrists and jerked him around. With a twitch of his arms, he slammed his acolyte against the wall and pinned him in place, using one hand to hold his wrists and his other to cup his jaw. ‘And so what?’ W’soran asked. ‘It is mine to destroy, Melkhior, just as you are. You are still mine, aren’t you?’ he continued, his voice dropping low. He squeezed Melkhior’s jaw and felt bone crack and the muscle rip beneath his fingers. ‘Yesss, I made you, my son, and I can unmake you. You are a tool, boy, to be used as I see fit, as is this citadel, and everything in it. And I will use you, to secure my victory.’

Without releasing Melkhior, he glanced back at the archway and the fallen rocks that now blocked it. ‘You will dig that out. Dead, those orcs will likely make better slaves at any rate. Then you will bring the levels of production back up to my standards. I will be taking half of your remaining forces with me when I depart. Now, any parting words for your poor burdened master?’

He released Melkhior and threw him to the floor. Melkhior glared up at him, and rubbed his bloody jaw. ‘If — if you take half of my forces, I will not be able to hold off the skaven, let alone supply you with your gold…’

‘Oh, I’m certain you’ll manage, my son. It would have been easier, had you a few of your fellows to help, but… well,’ W’soran said with a shrug. ‘One must make do with what one has, eh?’

‘You… you are more powerful than I am. Let me go in your stead. With you here, the skaven will not dare attack, and I am more than capable of-’

‘Of course you’re capable, my boy,’ W’soran said, looking down at him. ‘That’s why I left you here. You are much too useful for me to risk you on the battlefield. Why, if I lost you, who would guard my laboratory or my books? Though, it must be said, you’re not very good at the former.’

Melkhior flinched. He made no effort to get up. ‘I have always been loyal, master…’

‘Loyalty is worthless if the source is useless,’ W’soran said, turning away. ‘You are useless, Melkhior, and you always have been. So greedy for my favour that you fail to see that I despise you. And I despise you, because you are wasteful, Melkhior. You break what is still useful, like a child throwing a tantrum.’ He stopped, and glanced over his shoulder. ‘The only reason that I don’t kill you now, boy, is that you have made yourself indispensable, if in a thoroughly roundabout manner. I am running out of time, and simply by existing in this moment, you have become useful.’

He raised a talon, like a parody of the pedantic tutor he had once been, and said, finally, ‘But use is finite. And though it would pain me, if yours should ever run out entirely, I will flay the foul hide off your crooked bones myself.’ He turned and continued on, his wights following silently.

As he left Melkhior sitting in the darkness, W’soran called out, ‘Use is finite, my son. Prove you still have yours!’

The City of Mourkain

(Year -850 Imperial Calendar)

‘This is madness,’ W’soran snapped, slapping aside the record books and scrolls that occupied the table. He shot to his feet as they fell to the floor. ‘They’ll never believe it, let alone forgive old grudges.’

‘They will, because we have what they want,’ Ushoran said mildly. He picked up a handful of the gold that W’soran’s dead servants had clawed from the dark vaults beneath Mourkain. It had taken decades to find those vaults, but the legions of well-preserved dead entombed by mad, bad Kadon were now once more hard at work, building Ushoran a war-chest that outstripped even the wealth of long-lost Lahmia at its height. ‘Gold is what interests the dawi, and only gold.’