Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

‘You’ve lived too long, I think,’ W’soran said. Then, with barely a flicker of effort, he reached up and crushed the skaven’s skull. He hurled the twitching body aside and spun about as more silver sling-bullets slammed into him. Though the bulk of the skaven were occupied with the wights, there were still more than enough to be dangerous. He scrambled away, hunting for cover.

‘Where are you going, old beast?’

The wedge of the spear-blade punched through his side, knocking him sprawling. W’soran screamed and tried to drag himself up as Layla approached. She had hurled the spear with enough force to bruise his spine, and his limbs weren’t working correctly as he tried to pull himself away. He spat blood and hissed as she planted a foot on his back and took hold of the spear. ‘You are correct, Lady Neferata does want you alive. But she said nothing about you being in one piece.’ She raised her spear, her eyes blazing behind the serene mask she wore. ‘You ruined me, beast. Now I return the favour.’

With a surge of panicked strength, W’soran shoved himself up, dislodging her. She staggered back and W’soran rose to his feet, blood coating his tattered robes. He swatted aside the spear as she awkwardly thrust it at him and lunged for her.

His claws scraped across her mask, tearing it from her head. She screamed and clutched at her ruined face — the flesh had re-grown at last, leaving her now bestial features further marred by wide scars and blisters. She stumbled back, and he snatched up the spear. With a single thrust, he sent it tearing through her midsection and she fell, clutching at the blood-slick haft.

W’soran turned as a skaven blade skidded off his hip. Sorcerous fire writhed from his fingers, incinerating the ratkin and rippling outwards to catch half a dozen more in the halo of flame. He unleashed spell after spell into the swirling snow even as he backed away. Rat ogres roared and shoved towards him, urged on by their handlers, and he flayed the flesh from one with a savage gesture.

His back smashed into something and he glanced over his shoulder to see Melkhior. His acolyte was covered in wounds and panting like a dying bull. He held his blade extended towards the two feminine shapes loping towards them with deadly intent. ‘Master, I-’ he began.

‘Shut up, Melkhior,’ W’soran snarled. The wights had fallen, dragged down by sheer weight of numbers. The skaven approached, a living carpet of hairy killers skittering over the snow. The black-furred, armoured ratkin were closing in, shields raised and spears extended. Iskar had come prepared. There were more than enough of the ratkin to simply swarm him. One lucky strike and he was done for. Once again, there was only one option. Bitterness filled him, and he was tempted to ignore the obvious, to fight and kill until he was brought down.

It always came down to running. He’d fled Mahrak and Lahmia, Nagashizzar and Lashiek and Mourkain — a trail of cowardice, of spoiled dreams and thwarted desires, that was to be his legacy. Nagash had scarred the world, stamping his mark on the very skin of reality. But W’soran would be forgotten, crammed into another jar and only freed when there was no other choice. He would be nothing but a tool if he was caught, and forgotten if he fled. He was not a master of death, but merely its puppet. He was an engine, a tool.

‘No,’ he said, rejecting the thought. ‘No. No, I am not a servant. Not any more.’

Through the blinding snow, he saw the shape of Layla rip the spear from her belly. He saw Iona and Khemalla approaching, the skaven gathering and, far beyond them, past the snow and mountains, the black shadow that hung over Mourkain. His enemies were all around him, even as they had been in Mahrak and Lahmia and Nagashizzar. Death — the true death — spread its wings over him, as it had so many times previously.

And just as he had those times, W’soran did not wish to die. He would run. He would always run, because to do otherwise was to surrender and W’soran would never surrender, not to his inferiors, not to inevitability. ‘No,’ W’soran hissed. ‘No, not today, not like this. I can’t die. Not me. Never me, do you understand?’ He hurled the words at his enemies. He wasn’t a god, or even a king. He was just a man without any moves left, save one. ‘I won’t let you kill me!’ he shrieked. ‘The Master of Death does not die! Not here — not ever!’

The amulets of abn-i-khat still hung from his neck. He had not used them, had not dared. But there was nothing for it now, and anger overrode caution. The skaven at least would remember him, as they remembered Nagash, and the Lahmians as well, if only to curse his name. With a growl, he ripped the amulets from his neck and stuffed them into his mouth, his needle fangs grinding the soft stones to dust and releasing the hellish power they contained. There was no pain this time, only burning satisfaction. He was beaten, he was outnumbered, but when had it ever been otherwise? When had the world ever not sought to bury poor W’soran beneath its weight?

And when had he ever let it?

Green fire curling about him, he went to meet the enemy. Entire generations of skaven had been birthed and raised to what passed for maturity amongst their kind since the last time they had faced W’soran on the battlefield. But skaven memory was long, especially where fear was concerned. As he stepped forward, flames coiling about his thin arms and writhing in his dead eyes, the memory of fear was rekindled.

The skaven ranks began to retreat — pulling back from the apparition that faced them. W’soran’s hiss reverberated across the pass, and snow and ice tumbled from the high crags to crash into the ruin. Then he howled and death flew from his fingers and mouth. Skaven died in droves, burnt, boiled or blasted aside. With a shriek that would have frightened even the great bats of the depths, W’soran ploughed into the skaven ranks, lashing out with whips of flame and blades of shadow. He did not bother to raise the dead; he had no need of them. He fought alone — he had always fought alone. Bodies tumbled and spun about him, sent hurtling into the air by his frenzied magics. The air was full of blood and fear-musk.

The abn-i-khat sang in his veins and burned in his blood as he washed the life from the mountain pass. They had taken his refuge from him, but he intended to see that they paid for it in full, measure for measure. So intent was he on this that he barely noticed what effect his slaughter was having on the pass in which the ruined fort crouched.

With a thunderous roar, several tons of ice, snow and rock plummeted from the upper reaches of the pass and speared down onto the ruin, shattering what was left of the palisades and bunk-houses. Skaven screamed as they were buried beneath the avalanche. W’soran stood, the power draining from him as he let the rock and ice crash around him.

He felt relief, but no fear. Was that what Ushoran had meant, so long ago on the coast of the Black Gulf? Was this what it felt like, when the fear was burned out of you?

His last sight, before the darkness consumed him, was of the shadow over Mourkain.

The Worlds Edge Mountains,

(Year -223 Imperial Calendar)

As the darkness cleared, taking his jumbled memories with it, W’soran’s remaining hand snapped up and clamped against Melkhior’s throat as the latter’s jaws descended. Blood pumping from his torn throat, W’soran locked gazes with his treacherous acolyte. ‘Webs within webs,’ he gurgled. Melkhior’s eyes widened as he realised his danger, but too late. He grabbed for W’soran’s wrist, but couldn’t break his grip.

In the end, W’soran had figured it out entirely by accident. It was ironic, and painfully so, but by that time, he hadn’t cared. The secret of immortality had come so easily, in that white-hot moment of fear in Ushoran’s palace, though he had not realised it until much later. And not simply that secret, but all of the mysteries which had plagued him had become clear in those disjointed moments as he had faced his enemy, and then fled.