Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

The human defenders fell back, street by street, as the dead moved deeper into the city. Until, at last, the largest group of defenders made their stand in the great plaza before the pyramid. Ushoran’s personal guard was there, and Gashnag, who rode at their head, and Morath, as well. Morath stood surrounded by the newly-risen dead — men and women, soldiers and otherwise, had been jerked from death’s bower to defend their home. The zombies moved forward slowly, shuffling at Morath’s gesture. W’soran noted with some amusement that Morath looked unhappy with the prospect of commanding the corpses of his people. ‘Too much of the man in you, and not enough monster,’ W’soran murmured. ‘You’ll learn though, if you survive.’

The two sides faced one another across the plaza. The space was immense, bounded on its sides by great columns covered in carved skulls and topped by massive braziers that still burned despite the siege, casting their light across the plaza. Spears were lowered and arrows notched as the two groups sized one another up.

But, before a single arrow could be fired, a terrifying scream rocked the city. W’soran looked up and his good eye widened as he saw his zombie-dragon twisting through the air, falling towards the city. He could feel the dark magic that animated it fading. Impossibly, improbably, Abhorash was beating it.

‘By Strigu’s bones,’ Ullo murmured, looking up. ‘He can’t have won — he can’t!’

‘He has,’ W’soran said flatly.

The zombie-dragon smashed into the plaza like a shrieking comet. Two of the columns exploded at the point of impact, showering the surrounding streets and the plaza with a hail of broken stone. As the smoke began to clear, both sides faced each other warily as they waited to see what pulled itself out of the crater now gouged into the street.

With aching slowness the writhing coils of the corpse-dragon stilled, as its false life fled at last. A tall shape rose up and iron sang down, ringing as it struck the rock of the street.

Then Abhorash stepped through the smoke, dragging the beast’s head behind him by one splintered horn. His armour hung from him in tatters and his marble flesh was stained black and striped red, but the fire in his eyes burned undimmed. He had lost his helm, and some of his hair where the dragon’s breath had scoured his flesh. He released the head, letting it flop to the ground, and reached up to strip the ragged remains of his cuirass and pauldrons from his torso, tossing them aside as if they were of no more consequence than the bloody wounds that were already congealing on his mighty frame.

W’soran cursed himself for a fool. He had suspected that Abhorash would triumph, but he had hoped that the fight would carry him far from Mourkain. Instead, it was as if some dark power had dropped one of the greatest obstacles to his plan directly into his path.

Others seemed to feel similarly. Arpad cursed, and before either Ullo or W’soran could stop him, he darted forward, moving like lightning. He sprang towards Abhorash and vaulted up, blade extended. Almost casually, Abhorash struck out, shattering his opponent’s weapon and then, in a reversal so quick that not even the watching vampires could follow it, slashing upwards, catching Arpad as he descended. The latter didn’t even have time to scream as his body was bisected, split in two from thigh to shoulder. The two halves fell to the ground wetly and Abhorash flicked his blade, cleaning it of blood. He met W’soran’s shocked gaze and inclined his head. ‘Take him alive,’ he rumbled.

Fear flooded W’soran, washing away his earlier anger. He stepped back, and his spectral scarabs clicked and hummed softly as they swarmed about him, ready to yank him from peril.

He forced the fear down, driving it back into its hole. Nagash — no, Ushoran , not Nagash, Nagash was dead, crown or not — wanted him — fine. He was here, regardless. ‘Ullo,’ W’soran growled.

‘He’s mine,’ Ullo snarled and bounded towards Abhorash. As if that had been the signal, the battle was joined as both sides surged forward. W’soran found himself locked in combat once more with Gashnag, and the Strigoi seemed to have no intention of allowing him to gain enough room to use his sorcery. Instead, Gashnag hemmed him in, his pale features split in a snarl.

‘You heard the Dragon, sorcerer,’ Gashnag said, slashing low. W’soran stepped back, knocking several men sprawling. ‘Surrender yourself to us, and perhaps Lord Ushoran will spare you the worst of his planned torments!’

‘W’soran — surrender? You must be mad,’ W’soran barked. ‘When I’m winning? When I’m finally on the precipice of victory?’ He hissed an incantation and his scimitar became enveloped in obsidian flames. With a roar worthy of the Strigoi, he launched a flurry of attacks that drove Gashnag back. ‘Surrender is for the weak — for the useless! I am not useless! I am not weak! I am the strongest! I am the master of all I survey — the master of life and death! Surrender — you should all surrender to me!’ He battered the Strigoi backwards, driving into the ranks of the enemy, his swings lopping off limbs and shattering spears as he shoved Gashnag back, deeper into the ranks of men who kept him separated from his goal.

It had all been for this moment — every game, every death, all building to this point in time. Every scheme and plot had all been to buy him time and to arrange things so that the pieces would fall in his favour. He had forced Neferata’s hand, and Ushoran’s as well, forcing them into making the decisions he wanted. He had guided Mourkain, building the perfect cage for death’s tiger. Let the shreds of Nagash’s spirit thunder and rage, let him taunt and whisper. Ushoran knew as well as W’soran did that the game was done. The time for gods and monsters was past and now only two men — two minds — remained, to fight their final duel, a duel that W’soran of Mahrak would win.

He would not wear the crown, but instead shatter it and drain it. He would drink of its power, and with the strength of the Undying King added to his own, he would sink his fangs into the throat of the world and suck it white. He would do what Nagash had only dreamt of, and do it better. The world would bend and break beneath his heel and the sky itself would weep to see the agonies he inflicted.

He would be a god — a god of death and order, come to set the world to rights. He would become a god and put the world and all its peoples where they belonged… at his feet.

‘You wanted me, my master?’ he shrieked, slapping Gashnag’s blade aside. ‘You wanted to see your old student once more? Well, here I am! Here I stand!’ Gashnag’s blade shattered and the Strigoi staggered. W’soran, in his fury, had carved a red crater in the Strigoi ranks and men pressed back from the spider-limbed, splay-fanged apparition that howled and capered in their midst. W’soran tossed his blade aside and pounced on Gashnag, bearing him down. With a ripple of hidden strength, he hauled the Strigoi over his head. ‘Here I stand, master! Here is your truest son! Not Neferata! Not Ushoran! Me! I am your heir, your servant — no, I am your better! ’

Then, with a shriek, W’soran twisted Gashnag, shattering his spine and neck. He hurled the howling Strigoi aside and snatched up his scimitar. ‘Here I am! Face me!’ he screamed, gesticulating with his scimitar at the black pyramid. ‘Face me, damn you! I have beaten you!’

NO. YOU HAVE NOT.

The words were like hammer blows on the surface of his mind. They nearly dropped him from his feet and his black heart, pumping sour blood, shuddered in its cage of bone. It was Ushoran’s voice, but it almost wasn’t.

COME, MY SERVANT. COME TO ME.