Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘Where are you?’ he hissed. His free hand found the abn-i-khat amulets hanging from his throat and the urge to swallow them was suddenly overpowering. Soon, soon he would need them. Ushoran would not be able to resist this assault. Everything was going just as he had planned. His legions were without limit, his forces mightier even than those of Nagashizzar at its height, and soon, he would prove his mastery over the pitiful spark of Nagash that thought to impose its wretched will on the world.

‘Master, is it? Who’s the master now, eh? Who is the master, Nagash?’ he snarled, spitting the words down at the black city below. The streets of Mourkain were like lines drawn on parchment, crossing one another over and over again. The city was a spiral of stone, with crude thatch huts and lean-tos giving way to more sturdy stone dwellings and finally the great buildings that seemed to form the heart of the city. The streets were choked with the smells, sights and sounds of a thriving, vibrant metropolis under siege.

The citizenry — those who weren’t on the walls — fled, seeking shelter away from the forefront of battle. There weren’t so many of these; the Strigoi were a warrior race, even their women knew how to handle blades. Haphazard barricades were being thrown up at intersections and the dead who had entered the city were being thrown back, oft-times by other corpses, these animated by the magics of the Mortuary Cult. Dead men clashed in the streets in a gruesome gavotte, and the city itself seemed to shift in contentment.

Something had always been in this place, whether its name was Mourkain or not. It was a city in the same way that Lahmia had been, grown over centuries by generations, spreading first behind the river and then over it. As he swooped past the gates once more, he looked up and saw that its bulk was punctuated by hundreds of alcoves packed with skulls. Some of the skulls were brown with age, while others glistened white and clean. They were the skulls of Mourkain’s enemies. As he passed by them, he gestured, and horrible fires blossomed in the depth of each eye-socket. Mourkain was a sump of dark magic, and it was easier here than most places to raise the dead, especially those who still burned with some small ember of hatred for Mourkain and the Strigoi.

The skulls, which were now mounted on new bodies composed of shadows and dark flame, squeezed from their alcoves and began to climb the walls. They slithered up over the walls and gate and fell upon the Strigoi defenders, burning and tearing at them. W’soran laughed wildly as his mount landed heavily on the gatehouse. He stood in his saddle and cast out a hand, ready to drag the dead defenders to their feet to join his ranks.

But… something prevented him. The bodies twitched and jerked, but did not rise. W’soran hissed angrily, and he twisted in his saddle, following the delicate skeins of interfering magic back to-

‘Morath,’ he snarled.

Morath of Mourkain, necromancer and nobleman, stood on the wall, surrounded by a flock of Mortuary Cultists, all garbed in black. Morath was much as W’soran remembered him, if a bit thinner. He had been handsome once, had Morath, but now he was like a knife that had been over-sharpened, all sharp angles and gestures, and his robes and furs flapped about him as he chanted hoarsely, incanting in W’soran’s direction.

A flurry of flaming orbs streaked from the corona that sprang up around Morath’s gestures. W’soran swiped at the air, snuffing the deadly comets before they reached him. Something akin to pleasure filled W’soran as he watched Morath begin to gesture anew after barely a moment’s hesitation. ‘Oh, Morath, you do me proud, my son,’ W’soran called out.

‘No son of yours, monster,’ Morath shouted back. ‘I am a son of Mourkain, and Mourkain alone!’ He flung out both hands, and the gathering shadows cast by flame and moon swirled about W’soran and his mount; tendrils of purest darkness grabbed at the zombie-dragon, and the corpse-monster croaked a challenge. W’soran reached out and grasped one of the tendrils and let his will thrum through it. Morath gave a wail as control of his spell was torn from him, and he staggered.

W’soran examined the squirming, semi-ghostly tendril and smiled. ‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘You were ever the most impressive of my students, boy, and far superior to your fellows. It broke my poor heart when you refused my gift — think of what you might have accomplished without fear of death or infirmity, eh?’

‘Think of what I would have lost,’ Morath said, as his assistants helped him to his feet. ‘What you offer is no gift, monster. It’s a curse — better death than a carrion eternity.’

‘Death — ah, well, that will be my last gift to you, then, I suppose…’ W’soran said, with a shrug. Then he flung the writhing remnants of Morath’s spell back at the group of sorcerers who opposed him. The shadow-thing spread and grew, like ink on water, billowing out and engulfing them. Several, Morath included, defended themselves immediately, bellowing desperate incantations to ward off the preternatural tendrils.

Those who avoided them were soon confronted by the skull-wraiths that W’soran had summoned. The bobbing skulls of Mourkain’s enemies, riding their bodies of smoke and black flame, loped towards the sorcerers. Morath destroyed several with a burst of spellcraft, but others crashed into him, burning his flesh with their ghostly talons. Morath screamed and lightning snapped and snarled from him, shattering the champing, burning skulls.

Several of his acolytes pushed through their enemies to confront W’soran. But before they could so much as gesture, or bring the first syllables of a spell to their lips, a bestial shape blurred past them. A heavy blade went snicker-snack and their heads rolled free from their necks.

Ullo turned and gave his shark’s grin. ‘Three more heads for the pile, sorcerer!’ he roared. W’soran smiled as the other vampire bounded towards Morath and his remaining students. Morath had succeeded in sending the shadow tendrils back where they had come from, but he was having a harder time with the skulls. Ullo crashed amongst the necromancers like a cat amongst pigeons, his broad blade looping out to lop off limbs or open bellies. Sorcery did a man little good when his guts were all over his feet. Soon enough, only Morath was standing, and he was forced to draw his sword and defend himself.

Ullo howled, and the two traded blows as W’soran watched in amusement. His mount screeched and belched gas over the Strigoi reinforcements approaching the gatehouse. Down below, a massive bone-giant tore the stone doors from their hinges, sending the ancient doors toppling down into the roaring waters below. The giant shoved its way through the gateway, followed by more of W’soran’s forces — skeletal spearmen and archers took up positions inside the walls as armoured wights charged towards the reeling defenders, and cleared the walls of life with the help of fluttering masses of blood-bloated bats.

‘Sorcerer! Watch out!’ Ullo roared, flinging Morath aside. W’soran glanced at him, and then twisted around to see a descending thunderbolt clad in red. He screeched and drew his scimitar with only seconds to spare, barely halting the blow that would have split his skull.

Abhorash dropped to the parapet of the gatehouse, his fur cloak flaring around his crimson-armoured form. Though he had not seen the former champion of Lahmia in a century, he was as intimidating as W’soran recalled — sheathed in the serrated, sharply curved iron armour of Ushoran’s personal guard, Abhorash was a giant amongst men. He wielded his great sword with its iron blade engraved with curling, savage sigils as if it were a feather, and he moved as if his armour weighed no more than a morning mist.