Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

He could feel Melkhior’s glare on his back even as he moved after Rudek and the Strigoi. Whether he was angry about being left behind or about W’soran’s plans the latter couldn’t say. Nor did he particularly care. Let him stew. Melkhior was entirely too fixated on hierarchy; so much so that he spent the bulk of his time machinating against his perceived rivals rather than on his studies.

W’soran shook his head in disgust as he threaded his way through the ranks of the dead. If only Morath hadn’t been so blinded by his petty fealties, he might have joined W’soran in his self-imposed exile. That one was a student worth the name. His grasp of the darkling magics that rode the winds of death was instinctual, equal even to W’soran’s own. In time, he might have even been a match for his master. Not now, however. For now, he was Ushoran’s plaything, a slave to a slave.

Then, are you any different, playing loyal servant to Vorag? a treacherous part of his mind whispered. Irritated, he swatted the head off an unoffending skeleton. It bounced away across the rocks, joining the bones and bodies that littered the ground between the two forces. The skaven had pulled back after their initial clash, retreating in a wave of fear-stink. Their lines pulsed and squirmed as the overseers within their ranks tried to whip the survivors into some form of martial order. W’soran paused to watch, interested.

The skaven were a stable mutation, likely the result of excess exposure to the warping effects of abn-i-khat at some point centuries ago. He had seen and studied other such mutations in his time — the beastmen of the northern mountains, for instance, were of similar origins, though they were far less stable. He had dabbled in recreating the effects himself, in his experiments in Mourkain. He smiled as he thought of the vast, hidden crypts he’d left behind in the bowels of the mountain the city rested on, and the dozens of sealed stone sarcophagi in those crypts. Each sarcophagus contained a Strigoi who, despite receiving Ushoran’s blood-kiss, for want of influence or friendship or simply common sense, had lost favour with their master and been turned over to W’soran to do with as he wished, when he himself had had the master of Mourkain’s trust. Those sarcophagi had been crafted with veins of abn-i-khat, which was easy enough to find the further north you went, running through them. He shivered in pleasure as he imagined the changes that must have been wrought in those captive vampires. It was too bad he would likely never find out.

Unless he could find a way to recreate those experiments in peace and privacy; for that, however, he’d need a secluded hideaway. A mountain fortress, for instance… W’soran grinned and continued on. Plans, plots and schemes tumbled through his crooked brain, and he forced them aside. He had to concentrate on the here and now. Things could still go wrong. The Strigoi — Vorag — had to trust him. And to trust him, they first had to respect him. But savages respected only physical might, and that meant getting his hands dirty.

He swung the scimitar experimentally as he approached the gathered Strigoi, re-familiarising himself with its weight and balance. He’d learned the art of the blade in his youth, when duels were still common amongst the priesthood of Mahrak. Since then, he’d fought in hundreds of conflicts, wielding both sorcery and sword with equal intent.

‘You almost look as if you know how to use that thing,’ Rudek said. The Strigoi with him laughed at the perceived witticism. W’soran sneered.

‘I learned the ways of the blade before you gnawed your first teat, Rudek.’

Rudek frowned and turned away. ‘We’ll see about that, sorcerer. The skaven have yet to deploy their war machine. I think it would be wise to see that they never get that opportunity.’

‘I follow your lead gladly, my lord,’ W’soran purred, bowing shallowly. ‘If they hold true to form, that is where this rabble’s commanders will be as well. If we kill them, this lot will flee.’

‘I forget that you have fought them before,’ Rudek said. ‘Is it hard for you, then?’

‘What, my lord?’ W’soran asked.

‘To fight creatures you so obviously share a kinship with,’ Rudek said. Before W’soran could reply, Rudek drew his blade and thrust it into the air. ‘For Strigos and the Bloodytooth,’ he roared, and sprang forward into a dead sprint. The others followed suit, and W’soran, slowly, reluctantly, followed them. Behind the vampiric spear-point came the skeletal ranks, marching steadily, if much more slowly than their bloodthirsty masters.

It was a by-now familiar tactic — the Strigoi had a fondness for the close-in, red wet work of war. Lines, columns, ranks: all of that irritated a people whose first, last and only instinct was to charge. It had taken Neferata and Abhorash, once-champion of Lahmia and now lickspittle of Mourkain, centuries to mould the army of Strigos into a disciplined fighting force equal to any that had ever marched across the dry sands of the Great Land. Needless to say, the nobility, forever frozen at the height of their barbarity like insects in amber by immortality, often forgot those lessons. That could be dangerous, given the persistence and numbers of the skaven. W’soran almost laughed. It would be easy enough to see to Rudek, in the battle.

On the flanks, W’soran heard the howls of those forces he had brought with him into his exile — mobs of so-called ‘crypt horrors’ as the Strigoi had taken to calling them. It had taken him decades to perfect the process of their creation, and they were the perfect shock troops. The bloated, gigantic ghouls lumbered forward, swinging mauls, clubs and other outsize weapons as they loped ponderously towards the skaven. They were followed by packs of normal-sized ghouls, their grey flesh marked by W’soran’s brand. Through blood and black sorcery he had bound several clans of the corpse-eaters to himself, and they raced ahead to join the Strigoi, caterwauling and shrieking, propelled by his will.

Sizzling bursts of magic streaked overhead to crash against the skaven lines. Melkhior might be unhappy with his lot, but he was effective regardless. W’soran ran swiftly, ignoring the barrage of sling stones that were loosed from the ranks of the ratkin to patter against the armour of the vampires. Occasionally there were crackles of green lightning from the looming war machines, and the smell of burning abn-i-khat grew stronger the closer they got. W’soran snorted; the vermin used the stone for everything, from lighting fires to powering their mechanical constructs to foodstuffs. He thought that was likely why the war machines hadn’t been put to use yet — the stone took coaxing to release its strange essence, and even then it was highly volatile.

More sling stones flew, and then the Strigoi were upon the front ranks. W’soran narrowly avoided a spear-thrust and swept his scimitar across the throats of three skaven. Rudek had leapt high, avoiding the front ranks altogether, and crashed down amongst the back rows. His formerly handsome visage had twisted into an inhuman mockery, all teeth and eyes. He savaged the ratkin, slaughtering them with abandon, ripping them open and tossing them into the air. The others followed suit, tearing holes in the semi-orderly ranks of the skaven.

W’soran did his best to keep up. He did not relish combat in the same way, though pain and the expressions thereof were like the sweetest nectar to him. The screams of the skaven filled his ears as he carved his own path. Spears drove at him from all sides, the points skidding off his armour. He snarled and hacked through the spears and the hands that wielded them. Limbs and blood spilled to the ground. In moments, the skaven broke and began to flee, stampeding backwards to escape the rampaging vampires. The larger, black-furred skaven moved forward, heedlessly trampling the survivors in their efforts to reach the Strigoi. W’soran saw no reason to engage in any more pointless combat. His blade and armour were doused in the foul blood of the ratkin; more than enough, in fact, to impress upon the Strigoi his courage.