Master of Death

Chapter Sixteen

The City of Mourkain

(Year -327 Imperial Calendar)

‘Neferata has failed,’ W’soran said as he gathered up a number of scrolls and thrust them into Zoar’s arms. ‘More importantly, I have failed. We must find a new lair, my sons, and quickly, if we are to have any chance of success. Grab as many tomes as you can carry,’ he barked, gesturing sharply to the others. ‘Melkhior — where are the guards?’

W’soran’s retreat was in an uproar. Burrowed deep in the heart of the mountain that Mourkain crouched on, his lair was unknown save to a few. Most thought he resided in the temple complex that belonged to the Mortuary Cult. His acolytes hurried about, grabbing up as much as they could of the carefully accumulated and jealously hoarded knowledge. Writing desks and scroll shelves had been upended and shattered. Melkhior watched it all from the doorway, his eyes glittering. ‘The fire has them distracted,’ he said.

‘Good,’ W’soran said. He’d just come from the temple that was the centre of Mourkain’s Mortuary Cult. He’d set it aflame and slaughtered the priests. If he was being forced to flee, he was damned if he was going to leave any of his tools for Ushoran to use. Nagash had made that mistake, but W’soran was smarter than the Undying King. ‘Grab everything we can’t take — we’ll pile it in the centre of the room and burn it. Nothing will be left behind.’ Ushoran would not suspect him, not yet. That would buy them enough time to escape Mourkain, at least.

‘Burn it?’ Melkhior hissed, startled.

W’soran wheeled around to face his acolyte. ‘Are you deaf? Yes, burn it!’

‘But-’ Melkhior began. Like many savages, Melkhior regarded the written word with an almost totemic fascination, as if the words themselves were holy, rather than the power that they unlocked. W’soran had yet to break some of his more stubborn Strigoi acolytes of that fascination, to show them that true power resided not in musty tomes but in how you put the knowledge they contained to use. And not only the Strigoi — a number of his acolytes had perished in the fall of Lahmia attempting to save useless volumes of mystic knowledge from the great temple library.

Knowledge was merely a tool, and tools could be refined and replaced. Spellcraft could be honed like a blade, stripped of useless components and ritual to make a leaner, deadlier thing. That was why he insisted that his acolytes craft their own personal grimoires, and that those grimoires be copied to his own library. His apprentices were tools he used to sift through the grit to find the precious minerals buried there. Every discovery they made added to his arsenal. Creatures like Melkhior weren’t servants so much as they were walking spell-books, to be drained of knowledge and discarded when they had made their discoveries or refinements. Melkhior didn’t yet understand that, and W’soran doubted he ever would.

‘Tools that cannot be used are useless, fool,’ W’soran snarled, leaning close to Melkhior. ‘Useless to us, and — even worse — useful to our enemies. Ushoran already has that damnable crown, I’ll not give him anything else. Burn it, all of it.’

‘But… isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this what we’ve been working toward?’ Melkhior asked, as W’soran shoved scrolls and loose pages into his arms. ‘Ushoran is weak now, overcome by the power of the crown. We — you can take it!’ There was a burr of greed to his words and W’soran shook his head.

‘No,’ W’soran barked. ‘Now is not the time. We shall go east and see if we can find sanctuary with Vorag’s rebels.’ The Bloodytooth had begun his revolt well before Ushoran had placed the crown on his head. Likely it was simply another addle-brained plan of Neferata’s. Vorag had retreated to the eastern mountains with a bevy of cronies and their men, bellowing about a second Strigoi Empire.

So far Ushoran had ignored his rebellious vassal, but that wouldn’t last. Vorag would leap at the opportunity to have a sorcerer of W’soran’s calibre at his beck and call. Of course, that meant abandoning his place here. He shook his head, trying to gather together the tattered threads of his plans and schemes. A careful web had been shaken and stretched by the advent of Nagash’s damned spark.

Flight was the only option available. If he stayed, the sheer malevolent force of the crown’s presence would eventually crush his will, as it had Neferata’s. She served her new master meekly, barely more than an automaton. If you fought, you were crushed. That was Nagash’s way — he had no servants, no advisors, only tools. No dissent would be brooked in Ushoran’s new Nagashizzar. Not even from the man wearing the crown.

He paused, remembering the look on Ushoran’s face as the crown had set its hooks into him. W’soran remembered that half-moment of pleading, as Ushoran had realised just what he had awakened. Neither he nor Neferata had truly understood what the crown was. W’soran had tried to explain it to Ushoran, but he had been adamant. He had been convinced that the crown had held the power he required to carve an empire for his adopted people out of the mountains.

It had the power, all right. But it also had a will of its own, if no sentience, a terrible, night-black drive that hungered for the beautiful silence of Corpse Geometries. It had called them all out of the night, and brought them together to further that drive. It had chosen Ushoran as its mount, but it could have picked any of them, even W’soran himself. That it hadn’t provoked both relief and an odd, savage spurt of anger. Once again, poor old W’soran had been tossed aside in favour of another. Once more, poor old W’soran had been judged wanting by unworthy minds.

‘Blessing in disguise,’ he growled.

‘But why are we running? Surely your might is equal to his,’ Melkhior said.

‘Perhaps, but now is not the time to test that theory,’ W’soran snarled. ‘Not with both Abhorash and Neferata under his thumb. No, no we must flee — we must find a place from which to observe and plot anew. We must-’

Suddenly, a series of howls echoed through the lair. W’soran stiffened. ‘Damnation,’ he hissed. He had stationed ghouls at the approaches to his lair, to keep watch just in case Ushoran wasn’t quite as distracted as he appeared. Those howls meant that that was sadly the case.

It looked like they would be fighting their way out of Mourkain after all…

Crookback Mountain

(Year -262 Imperial Calendar)

In the end, it had been easy enough to escape.

Ushoran had let him flee. There had been no mocking laughter, no pursuit, merely satisfied silence, as if some long-argued point had been proven. He had fled the pyramid, ignoring the fate of his commanders, allies and acolytes, ignoring the battle that still raged. Abhorash had seen him, and had grown even paler, his stony face settling into an expression of resigned sadness that stung W’soran more than any blade or mockery.

He had fled the city, wreathed in ghostly scarabs, hurtling himself away from the malignant enormity that had almost claimed him. In the days that followed, some of his forces caught up with him. Barely a third of his army had remained, and that third had disintegrated by steady increments as he made his way back to the dubious sanctuary of Crookback Mountain.

Ullo was dead, he thought, though he couldn’t be sure. Abhorash had killed him, or perhaps Walak or Morath, or maybe he too had fled. Dhrox and Throttlehand had led a fighting withdrawal, only grudgingly giving ground as they were forced out of the city. Voloch was dead, and his wights had borne his body out of the city, the Draesca trailing behind them. Voloch II, his oldest son, had already assumed the helm, and it was only the magics within it and him that had enabled the Draesca to escape the field. They had made for the west and the Vaults. Dhrox and Throttlehand had gone west as well, with their followers.

W’soran’s acolytes were dead, torn apart by the vengeful Strigoi. It was only his concentration that kept his army together; and day by day, it slipped a bit more and he left a trail of rotting body-parts and bones in his force’s wake. W’soran rode no steed, skeletal or otherwise, but instead stumbled through the hills and bowers, cloak pulled tight, his gaze directed within, rather than without. He did not notice as his forces collapsed or wandered away as his control of them slipped and faded. The great bats were gone, and the spirit-hosts had dissipated.

When he at last reached the passes that marked the entrance to his demesnes, he was accompanied only by what remained of his bodyguard — a dozen wights. The wights neither complained nor spoke, and it was not his will alone that kept them animated. The rites required to permanently anchor their spirits to their bodies had been an exhausting process, but one he soon found to have been worth the effort.

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.

‘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.

‘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.