Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘You make enemies the way some men make wagers,’ a woman said, striding forward through the swirling snow. ‘Foolishly and with no intention of paying debts.’ She was clad in thick furs that did little to hide the scars that covered her arms. In one hand, she loosely clutched a spear, its wide blade edged in silver. Her voice was muffled by the mask of silver she wore beneath a headscarf of crimson wool. The mask’s expression was beautiful, yet stern, but behind it, her eyes burned with raw hatred. ‘Is it any wonder that your creditors come together, to force recompense?’

W’soran stared at her without replying. She gestured to her mask. ‘Admiring your handiwork, monster?’ she asked. ‘I am as you made me.’

‘Layla,’ W’soran muttered. ‘Ha.’ A thin, crooked smile spread across his face as he looked her up and down. ‘I thought you were destroyed. Then again, I assumed you were dead as well,’ he added, shooting a look at Iskar. ‘Ah, poor foolish W’soran, to be haunted by old mistakes…’ he began, mock-wretchedly.

‘You ruined her,’ the second voice spat. W’soran turned to see the Lahmian called Khemalla striding through the ranks of skaven, followed by the crimson-haired Iona. Both Lahmians wore furs and carried swords. ‘You broke her and flayed her and the sisterhood of the Silver Pinnacle will make you pay for every drop of blood you squeezed from her flesh. You will pay for her pain and for that of Lupa Stregga as well, old monster!’

‘Ha!’ W’soran barked. ‘Come then, come and take your pound of flesh, hags and vermin.’ He turned slowly, casting his one-eyed glare about him. He spread his arms. ‘Here I stand, beaten and helpless. Poor W’soran is at your mercy.’

‘Beaten, possibly, but helpless? I doubt that.’

W’soran gave a grunt and turned. A black cloaked shape was trudging towards the fort. The skaven made way for it, and W’soran didn’t need to see its face to recognise it. The moment the wights had disobeyed his commands to attack, he’d known that only one other will could vie with his for control of the dead, even as fatigued as he was.

‘Melkhior,’ he growled. ‘I wish I could say that this is a surprise, that I expected you to die like a proper acolyte, defending my citadel, but…’

‘But I am, as ever, a disappointment,’ Melkhior said, stopping a respectful distance away. ‘I have endured variations of that observation for centuries, as well as other abuses by your hand.’ He looked around, his grisly features splitting in a needle-fanged grin. ‘I thought you were the mightiest creature in the world, when Ushoran first bid me serve you. And I served you well — I fought for your praise, the way you taught me. I made myself indispensable. The others were weak and I disposed of them for you, and you called me wasteful. I followed you into exile, and you showered praise on that traitor Morath. I guarded you from assassins and treachery and I was repaid with distrust and insults. And now, at last, I gain my own back. Today, master, you die.’

W’soran didn’t reply. Melkhior chuckled wetly and began to circle him. ‘This was all my doing, you know.’ He motioned to the skaven and the Lahmians. ‘I was forced to resort to more oblique means of maintaining your citadel for you, old monster. Are you not proud of my ingenuity?’

‘If you displayed any, I might be,’ W’soran said.

Melkhior snorted. ‘I made allies of enemies and all for the cheap price of… you. I bought myself time, just as you taught me. I bought myself peace.’ He looked back at the distant shape of Crookback Mountain. ‘What need have I of fortresses and mountains?’

‘They were not yours to give,’ W’soran said.

‘Nor were they yours to keep — Vorag, remember? The true heir to Kadon’s throne,’ Melkhior said. He tapped his malformed skull. ‘Your authority is based on lies, old monster. Plans within plans, webs within webs, but what happens when the web is torn, eh?’ Melkhior stopped moving and pointed at W’soran. ‘While you marched on Mourkain, I weaved my own webs. Better and stronger than yours — the skaven are quite willing to make a deal, if the terms are beneficial. And with the skaven as intermediaries, I made overtures to old friends…’ He gestured to the Lahmians. ‘And now, here, at the end of all things, your death is assured.’ Melkhior grinned widely. ‘I have beaten you. Me — I beat you !’

‘Did you?’ W’soran asked. ‘I don’t think so. In fact, I rather think that you have misjudged the situation. Is that not right, Lahmian?’ He glanced at Iona, who frowned.

‘Silence, monster,’ she said.

‘What are you talking about?’ Melkhior snarled.

‘Oh Melkhior, have I not told you time and again that Neferata is perfectly willing to subordinate her desires to her needs?’ W’soran grinned. ‘She needs me. She needs my power. Neferata is not wasteful, like you. She may bury me away, in the dark, but she will not kill me. She needed me to defend Lahmia, and she needs me now to help her defend her new kingdom. They are not here to kill me, you fool… they are here to kill you .’

Melkhior blinked. ‘What?’

‘She needs me, fool. She needs my power. But she doesn’t need you, Melkhior. You are useless — worse, you are dangerous, in the service of the wrong master. They are here to kill you, to burn you even as I burned my scrolls and tomes the day we fled Mourkain.’ W’soran clucked his tongue. ‘Useless, foolish Melkhior — even in treachery, you are a disappointment.’

Melkhior shrank back with a hiss. He looked wildly about him. Grim-faced, the Lahmians approached him. The skaven watched, apparently content with this turn. Iskar’s snout wrinkled in cruel amusement as he watched Melkhior retreat from the trio of women. The skaven looked at W’soran and tapped one of its eyes with a metal claw. ‘Maybe she give you new-new eyes, man-thing,’ Iskar chattered.

W’soran said nothing. He felt the skeins of control that extended from Melkhior to his wights weaken. ‘Attack,’ he murmured.

There were a dozen of the wights. Armoured and armed, they were an intimidating sight. Even motionless, the skaven were giving them a wide berth. Nonetheless, the ratkin were surprised when the wights sprang to the attack. The barrow-blades sliced out, and skaven squealed and died. Sling-bullets sang off the wights’ armour to no effect, and the small blades the ratmen carried proved equally ineffective.

Iskar’s ruined eyes widened slightly, and then bulged as W’soran pounced, snatching him up. ‘What was it you once said to me… ah yes, there’s always time, vermin. It’s just a matter of using it effectively,’ he hissed.

Metal talons raked across his face and he was forced to release the warlock-engineer. Iskar fell, but bounded to his feet with a hiss of pneumatic pumps. It flung aside its furs to reveal the armour that sheltered its ruined body. It was a crude thing of plates and pumps and like Iskar’s gauntlets, seemed less for protection than to provide support. Nonetheless, the skaven seemed almost eager for battle. It revealed its blackened fangs in a snarl and raised its claws. ‘Die-die, man-thing,’ Iskar shrilled, flinging itself at W’soran.

The claws burned like fire as they carved into his arm. They were crafted with veins of wyrdstone running through them, and were more potent for it. Given the way his opponent was frothing, W’soran thought it likely that Iskar had consumed some of the stone as well. It was probably all that was keeping the elderly skaven alive, especially given his condition. The creature was held together by nothing but hate and magic.

The claws cut through his robes, opening his flesh with a sizzling hiss. W’soran caught Iskar by his throat and hefted him. The skaven thrashed and squealed, tearing at him frenziedly.