Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

The forts that guarded the passes had never been repaired or garrisoned after Ushoran’s attack. There had been no reason, and as he picked his way through the snow-encrusted ruins, he cursed himself for his lack of foresight. Not just in regard to the garrisons, about everything. He had been a blind fool. A starving wolf, swallowing tainted meat.

In that moment of confrontation, he had seen himself for the fool he was. He had stalled and prevaricated for centuries, avoiding that moment, comforting himself with reassurances that it was all according to plan. But there had been no plan. Not really, not truly. Not one worth the name. He had not been buying time — he had merely been putting off the inevitable.

He had thought himself a player in a grand game, when, in reality, he had been nothing more than a pawn, played off by one side against the other. He had been used to clear the field of obstacles — Vorag, the rebel Strigoi… Ushoran.

He had been made a tool.

W’soran raised his arms and howled as a frigid wind curled through the ruin. Dark magic crackled through him as his rage built, warring with fear and self-loathing for control of his mind. He had been wielded deftly and precisely, aimed to strike a blow. Even now, he could not say who had aimed him, and at whom the blow had been aimed. Had Neferata and Abhorash conspired to send him against Nagash? Or had Ushoran used him to accomplish some indefinable purge of his own people, and thus pave the way for his eventual victory? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had been used — he, who had fancied himself the master planner, the paramount schemer, had merely been a cog in someone else’s scheme.

Panting with anger, he peered through the shattered gates of the fort. Beyond the pass, the jagged, curving fang of Crookback Mountain rose through the mist and snow in the distance, beckoning him on. The safety that it promised was only temporary at best, he knew. He had been allowed to flee, but he would not — could not — be allowed to live. The point had been proven, but he was still dangerous, he could still be a thorn, if he so chose.

No, they would not let him live. He had to flee. He had to seek sanctuary elsewhere, he had to find another protector… perhaps Vorag still lived, somewhere in the east. If he could reach the Bloodytooth, if he could pass the blame off onto other shoulders, he might — what?

‘What?’ he muttered. ‘Renew the fight? Why? What is to be done? What now for you, W’soran of Mahrak? What now to strive for, eh?’

He snarled in frustration. Sorcerous bolts erupted from his hands, striking the remains of a bunkhouse and a sagging, half-shattered palisade. He howled again, unleashing his anger on the ruined mountain fortress as his wights watched silently. Steam billowed into the air as his magics melted the snow and blasted the rocks to slag.

‘What now for poor betrayed W’soran, eh?’ he roared. ‘Will he return to his citadel to await the coming of his enemies? What would be the point?’ He whirled and gesticulated to his wights. ‘Answer me that, eh? The world has become a jar, and defeat is the stake that pierces my old heart!’

‘So melodramatic, old monster,’ a voice giggled. The words bounced from rock to rock and seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. W’soran spun about, his good eye blazing.

‘So,’ he spat, ‘I should have known. That is to be my end, is it? Used and discarded? Is there no grace left in the world, no honour or mercy?’

It was a woman’s voice that had called out to him, and familiar, though he could not put a name to it. But he knew what it meant. Whether she had engineered his defeat or not, Neferata had obviously decided that it was time to take him off the board. Now that the titans had had their duel, the handmaiden had come to remove the detritus from the field.

‘Funny words coming from a serpent like you,’ another voice said, laughing. The snow was falling harder now, and the wind moaned as it rushed through the ruin. Shapes moved across the shattered palisade. High-pitched laughter scraped his ears.

‘Maybe he lies even to himself, eh?’ a third voice chuckled, too closely. W’soran twisted, expecting an attack. But none came. Quicksilver shapes moved around him, almost floating across the driving snow.

‘Twist and turn as you might, old monster, but this is one trap you cannot escape,’ the first woman said in a sing-song voice.

‘Trap?’ W’soran muttered. ‘What trap — what are you talking about? Reveal yourselves!’

Something hissed, at his elbow. A pale shape lunged upwards, bursting from the snow, serrated blades angled for W’soran’s heart. He reacted instinctively, catching the blades and bringing his fist down on his attacker’s head with skull-crunching force.

The skaven flopped limply to the snow. It was clad in white sack-cloth and its pale fur was encrusted with ice. Its blood cut canyons in the snow as it twitched and expired. His good eye widened and he looked around, sensing more than seeing its companions approaching. He gaped as he realised that there were hundreds of the ratkin creeping through the snow towards him and that they had likely been watching him the entire time, readying themselves to attack.

The skaven had long memories. They had sent an army for him; not just the white-clad killers, but armoured, black-furred warriors, and heavy-limbed rat ogres as well. They moved through the ruin, eyes fixed on him. The rat ogres rattled their chains and bellowed in anticipation of the blood yet to be spilled. Hundreds of ratkin moved towards him with but a single goal. He wondered, as he faced them, if he should have been flattered.

Slings whirred and bullets of silver struck him, burning his skin and cracking bone. W’soran staggered, screaming. ‘Kill them,’ he shrieked, but his wights did not move. They stood as stiff and as still as statues, their eyes glowing dully. His magics snapped and coiled about them, stymied by an unseen presence, and he gawped, off-balance and unprepared. Another sling-bullet caught him on the back of the head and he collapsed onto his hands and knees, his body racked with pain.

This was how it ended, then. The whole of it, shaved down to this sharp point of time. This was to be how W’soran of Mahrak died… butchered by vermin within sight of his citadel. It was almost poetic. He grimaced. He’d never liked poetry.

The skaven crept closer, some drawing blades. Others stayed at a distance, crouching on the rocks or the ruined palisade, their slings ready. Then, a sharp, raspy voice barked a command and the skaven froze. W’soran looked up. A hunched, crooked figure drew closer, stalking through the snow, wrapped in heavy furs. Its eyes blazed a sickly shade of green within the hood it wore. Armoured talons held its mangy furs tight about it, and a scarred, hairless snout protruded from its hood. W’soran recognised those scars, and the carefully shaped eyes of abn-i-khat that glared unblinkingly down at him. ‘Out of time, man-thing,’ Iskar hissed.

W’soran was astonished that the creature was still alive. Its features within its hood were more bone and brass than flesh and the gauntlets it wore over its crippled paws were seemingly less for protection than to hold its aged limbs steady. ‘The mountain is ours,’ it continued, a worm-like tongue dancing over its teeth. ‘All of this is ours.’

W’soran shoved himself to his feet. ‘Is it, then?’ He looked around. ‘Is that what Neferata has come to now? Making bargains with vermin against her old allies?’ he asked loudly.

Iskar laughed in a weird, high-pitched voice, the skaven’s crippled body shuddering with its mirth. That laughter was met and matched by the falsetto giggles of the women. W’soran gnashed his teeth in anger.