Josh Reynolds - Master of Death

As the armoured skaven approached, he extended a hand and a dark mist coalesced before him and slithered towards the enemy. The mist billowed and spread as it moved, and swept over the ratkin with predatory intent. They screeched and clawed at themselves as it seeped into their mouths, noses and eyes. Heavy, muscular bodies withered and crumpled like drained wineskins as the mist drew out their lives like an ethereal leech.

W’soran laughed as the armoured ranks melted away before him. It was so much more satisfying to kill with a gesture than with the swing of a sword. He stepped over the bodies without a backward glance. Behind him, he could hear the tread of bony feet as the army pressed forward.

More skaven boiled out of concealed holes and tunnels, racing to the defence. Rudek and the other Strigoi pounced on them, butchering them. W’soran ignored them, and headed for the war-engine. The skaven had dragged it from the wide, gaping mouth of a tunnel and set it up facing the undead. Slaves and overseers scurried and clambered over the engine, doing what W’soran couldn’t say. Even as he loped towards the closest, he saw that a massive chunk of abn-i-khat had been mounted inside its brass and iron frame. On the platform that the weapon was mounted on, a group of skaven stood, watching the approaching undead with a disturbing lack of concern.

The air suddenly took on a greasy feel and W’soran’s hackles bristled. A trio of Strigoi bounded past him. The war-engine shuddered like a dying beast as lightning squirmed across its hull, and suddenly W’soran had the unpleasant feeling that the whole battle so far had merely been a distraction, to ensure that the skaven got their toys positioned properly.

Light burst from the stone and a crackling bolt was spat from the copper tip of the engine. The Strigoi ceased to exist a moment later, their bodies rent asunder by the bolt of sickly green energy. W’soran was thrown from his feet by the force of the explosion. More bolts were fired as the engine shuddered and vomited death on the approaching undead. Whole ranks of skeletal warriors vanished into dust and screaming ghouls were sent tumbling into the air, their flesh peeling and blackened. Green smoke obscured the destruction a moment later.

W’soran staggered to his feet, momentarily stunned by the sudden display of raw power. Thus, he did not detect the pad of heavy paws until too late. Alerted at the last moment, he spun about, only to be seized in an iron grip and wrenched from his feet as the snarling maw of a rat ogre gaped hungrily before him. He struggled, but to no avail. With a hungry bellow, it hauled him towards its open jaws.

Lahmia, the City of the Dawn

(Year -1200 Imperial Calendar)

The catapult stone tore through the gatehouse. Stone and timber exploded inwards from the force of the impact, and W’soran was hurled backwards, the precious tomes and scrolls tumbling from his grip. He cursed as a heavy stone crashed down atop his legs, pinning him against the remaining wall. There was no pain; panic, however, filled him. Despite the pantomime of bravery he’d put on for Ushoran and Ankhat, his time in the jar had been pure torment. To be trapped, unable to move, to escape, had been almost more than he could bear. A few more years of being folded up in that clay prison and he might have gone insane.

Frantically, he shoved at the rock, trying to free himself. Another stone struck the gatehouse, showering him with splintered wood and powdered stone. Desperate now, he beat on his captor with his fists. The stone cracked and popped and he jerked his legs free even as a third catapult stone took out one side of the gatehouse. The structure groaned and what was left of the floor buckled. W’soran scrambled to his feet, snatched up the tomes and papyri and bounded down the quivering stairwell to the ground. People were running in all directions; a sea of humanity heaved and pulsed and W’soran’s blood quickened at the sight of it.

His lean shape was given a wide berth, covered as he was in blood and dust. He hugged the grimoires to his chest. He had to get them out of the city. Nothing else mattered. Lahmia was done; even if Neferata somehow managed to win this battle, the city was doomed to fall. The other cities had been roused against them now and they would not return to their own demesnes without something to show for it.

Suddenly, the crowd heaved itself like a single organism, retreating. W’soran paused, wondering if Alcadizzar’s forces had somehow already reached the city. The great western gates of Lahmia swung wide, admitting a ragged band of infantry and several riders. He spotted Ankhat and his personal guard — the once haughty noble had a look of panic on his face as he and his men lashed out at the tide of humanity that could not help but find itself in their path. ‘Move,’ he roared, ‘Make way for the Queen! Move or die!’

W’soran’s good eye widened as he caught sight of the large figure mounted on the horse behind Ankhat — Abhorash. The champion looked as if he had bathed in blood, and his long arms held a limp figure that W’soran realised was Neferata. He felt a moment of gloating triumph that was quickly washed aside by understanding. If Neferata had fallen, the city was indeed doomed.

It was time to go; but where?

North, maybe… instinctively, he looked. He could not see the mountains from where he was, but he knew they were there nonetheless. He could feel them pulling him. There was a lodestone in his blood, and he felt drawn towards the mountains beyond the Sour Sea. To a mountain, wreathed in an unholy greenish light, which belched smoke; a mountain surmounted by a fortress as cruel-looking as it was foul. In his head was a word: Nagashizzar. And in his mind’s eye, he saw again the skull-faced giant of his two decade-old vision: a giant clad in brutal armour, wreathed in sorcerous flames, and in his hand, a jagged metal crown.

Nagash.

The Undying King, the Great Necromancer… master of the power he so desired. Decided, W’soran turned, hoping to blend into the mass of humanity before either Ankhat or Abhorash spotted him.

There was nothing holding him to Lahmia. The city had never been his home, not really. But there was a place waiting for him, he knew.

He just had to get there in one piece.

The city was already alight by the time he made it to the northern gate. The soldiers of the other cities were spilling into the streets of Lahmia, looting and pillaging. W’soran, his robes pulled tight over the burden he carried and a cowl over his head, moved with the steady tide of would-be escapees seeking to flee the city.

Just before he reached the gate, however, the sound of hoofbeats filled the air. People began to scream and push and trample each other as the horsemen burst into the forecourt before the gate, riding hard towards the crowd with whoops and cries of triumph. W’soran growled in frustration as people shoved against him. Losing patience, he lashed out, breaking bones and ripping flesh with a single flailing blow. The crowd gave way before him, dispersing. W’soran was alone in moments and out in the open as the riders closed in.

With a snarl, he threw aside his cloak and flung out a hand. Dark energies rippled from it, and men died…

The Dark Lands

(Year -326 Imperial Calendar)

The rat ogre drew him towards its maw. W’soran had dropped his blade, so he grabbed the creature’s snout, one hand on each jaw. The rat ogre’s grip tightened and his cuirass creaked. W’soran hissed and his withered muscles bulged as he tore the top of the monster’s head loose by its upper jaw in a spray of gore. The beast toppled, releasing him as it fell. He hit the ground hard and sprang to his feet, snatching up his blade as he moved.