Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

W’soran shivered as a cold wind cut through him, a cold such as he had not felt in centuries. It was the cold of a damp tomb, or of an open grave… the pure, inexorable cold of death. He hesitated… and almost lost his head as Abhorash’s blade looped out and chopped into a nearby column. W’soran snapped around and his scimitar carved a black trail across Abhorash’s chest.

Abhorash stepped back and touched his chest. He examined the blood and smiled grimly. ‘You are quicker than I remembered,’ he said. He jerked his chin towards the pyramid. ‘You heard him. He’s waiting for you.’

‘And I’m to believe that you’ll just let me go to confront him?’ W’soran snarled, straightening. He had always wondered whether the champion had heard the whispers of Nagash’s shredded spirit as clearly as the rest of them.

‘Yes,’ Abhorash said. ‘You might be the only one who can. Unlike you, I am not blinded by arrogance.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ W’soran spat as they circled each other. Abhorash seemed unconcerned, which infuriated W’soran. ‘Why are you even still here? Do you willingly serve Ushoran, champion? What are you doing here?’

Abhorash was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘Repaying a debt.’

W’soran stared at him. Abhorash stepped aside. Behind him, there was a clear path to the pyramid. He could hear the voice of the crown in his head, urging him on, and what might have been Ushoran’s voice as well, pleading with him. He shook his head and asked, ‘Why?’

‘If you have to ask, sorcerer, you wouldn’t understand,’ Abhorash said, turning away. ‘I have a battle to win, W’soran. And you have your own. I would hurry.’

W’soran did. He hurried away from the battle, leaving his men behind. No one tried to stop him from entering the pyramid. All of the guards were otherwise occupied, as he’d planned. But now, at the moment, he almost yearned for opposition, anything to delay what was coming next. What he feared was waiting for him.

He had visited the pyramid often enough in his time in Mourkain. But never before had it seemed so oppressive. The corridors were crafted from slabs of stone and, like the pyramids of home, they moved across from east to west, and then up south to north in a zigzag pattern. It was like following a well-worn path. He knew where it would come out as he recalled the routes he had taken decades before. With every step he took, the whispering in his head grew stronger. It was almost painful in its intensity, and he fought to ignore it.

The throne room crouched in the web of corridors that surrounded it, nestled like a cancer in the heart of the pyramid. Smoking, glowing braziers were scattered throughout the room, their light revealing the high balconies and great expanse of floor. At the other end of the room, a huge flat dais rose, and on it, a throne. The throne was made from the ribcage of some great beast and spread across the rear wall, and on that throne… Ushoran.

He sat slumped, as if bowed beneath an incredible weight, almost to the point of breaking. His shape rippled and contorted as he sat, as if at first assuming one form and then changing to the next in a blur of faces and shapes, both human and otherwise. He moved from monster to man and back again as he sat on his hard-won throne.

But it was not Ushoran alone who sat there; the great iron crown he wore seemed to pulse like the eyes of a predator as it sighted prey. A vast shadow unspooled from Ushoran’s slumped form, spreading across the walls and floor, slithering towards W’soran, who, for a moment, forgot why he had come and what he desired, and wanted only to cower before the awful immensity which squatted in the throne room, looming over everything.

In his time beneath the crown’s influence, Ushoran had grown strong. The Lord of Masks had become something else; something massive and world-breaking. And even as he realised that, W’soran knew that the process was not yet finished. That what Ushoran was now was but the merest shadow of what he would become in time. Like some dreadful seed, the true horror was yet to flower.

‘No,’ W’soran said, forcing himself to step forward. ‘No, I won’t let you… you won’t take it from me. It’s mine — this world, them — Ushoran, Neferata — they’re all mine!’ Even to his own ears, he sounded petulant. Like a child scolding an uncaring parent. The crown couldn’t hear him. Nagash couldn’t hear him, but he still lashed out, hoping to score points against the god that had failed him.

HELLO, W’SORAN.

Ushoran’s mouth was open, but it was not his voice that reverberated from it. His hands reached up and clutched his temples, as if he were in pain. ‘W’soran,’ he gasped a moment later. ‘You came…’

W’soran said nothing. He clutched the hilt of his scimitar so tightly that the bone of the handle cracked. Ushoran’s eyes were tight with pain. ‘I thought — I thought I could control it. I thought I was stronger than Kadon, but it is too strong for me. I need your help,’ he said, between gritted teeth. ‘It’s taking all of my strength — all of me — to resist it, to keep it from killing every living thing in Mourkain and riding their corpses into battle with the world.’ His eyes rolled madly in their sockets and his flesh trembled as if something was moving within him.

THERE IS TIME. IS THAT NOT SO, W’SORAN? WE HAVE TIME. TIME BEATS DOWN MOUNTAINS AND BREAKS WILLS… EVEN WILLS AS STRONG AS THOSE POSSESSED BY YOU AND YOUR ILK. THE STRENGTH IN SPITE IS FINITE.

Ushoran’s voice — was it his voice? — echoed through the throne room, weighing down the air itself. W’soran’s flesh crawled as the words brushed across his mind like greasy fingers. ‘I thought it would be different,’ Ushoran whispered. ‘I thought I was a monster, that we were monsters, but we’re nothing compared to him .’ His eyed focused on W’soran. ‘I can’t take it off anymore. It won’t let me.’ W’soran’s good eye widened as he saw Ushoran’s claws dig into his own flesh, as if he sought to strip the meat from his scalp.

He screamed and hunched forward on his throne. His talons slammed down on the armrests, cracking them. He glared helplessly at W’soran and said, ‘Help me, my friend… please…’ He closed his eyes and shuddered, racked by pain.

‘Ushoran, I-’ W’soran began. Memories rose up in him; memories of Ushoran freeing him from his jar, of Ushoran saving him from Abhorash, of Ushoran rescuing him in the Marshes of Madness.

NO. THERE IS NO HELP. THERE IS NO USHORAN.

THERE IS ONLY DEATH.

Ushoran’s eyes opened. But they weren’t Ushoran’s eyes. He rose, and there was another shape superimposed over his — a towering shape, wreathed in green fire.

‘ YOU WANTED TO PROVE YOUR POWER, W’SORAN? COME THEN. SHOW YOUR OLD FRIEND WHAT YOU HAVE LEARNED ,’ Ushoran said.

And W’soran did.

The City of Mourkain

(Year -327 Imperial Calendar)

‘Neferata has failed,’ W’soran said as he gathered up a number of scrolls and thrust them into Zoar’s arms. ‘More importantly, I have failed. We must find a new lair, my sons, and quickly, if we are to have any chance of success. Grab as many tomes as you can carry,’ he barked, gesturing sharply to the others. ‘Melkhior — where are the guards?’

W’soran’s retreat was in an uproar. Burrowed deep in the heart of the mountain that Mourkain crouched on, his lair was unknown save to a few. Most thought he resided in the temple complex that belonged to the Mortuary Cult. His acolytes hurried about, grabbing up as much as they could of the carefully accumulated and jealously hoarded knowledge. Writing desks and scroll shelves had been upended and shattered. Melkhior watched it all from the doorway, his eyes glittering. ‘The fire has them distracted,’ he said.