Master of Death

Epilogue

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.

It was about death. More, it was about the fear of death. There was a great power in fear, this he had always known. But through fear had come clarity. It was fear that had shown him the path to true immortality. The fear that had been his bane since childhood had shown him the way, at the last.

The answer had been in front of him the entire time. The body — the mortal flesh — was an anchor and in the case of himself, an anchor that could not be dislodged from its place without extraordinary effort. Vampires, liches and wights — every undead thing was a ghost haunting its own mortified flesh. And it was only when that spirit was in danger of being freed of its anchor that true immortality beckoned.

He had seen that for himself with the wraiths dragged from the mutilated flesh of necromancers. The spark of their power remained and blossomed into something beautiful once freed of its restrictive meat. Why should the same thing not be possible with W’soran himself? But try as hard as he might, the key to unlocking that power remained elusive. Until Mourkain, until he had felt the fear of destruction — the fear of the final darkness.

It was fear, the mortal fear of death, that motivated men like Morath, whether they admitted it to themselves or not. It made them learn, experiment, and evolve in ways that creatures like W’soran could not, frozen as they were in time like flies trapped in amber.

While W’soran lived, he could never truly attain the immortality — the power — he desired. Only in dying could he become the master of death. That was Nagash’s secret — to transcend death and fear, one had to be consumed by them, like a disease burning itself out.

You have finally proven useful, my son, W’soran thought, as I have always suspected you would. His blood mingled with Melkhior’s as they struggled and he read his acolyte’s thoughts with the ease with which he might have read a book or scroll. Images flared and faded as he plunged through the shadowed recesses of Melkhior’s mind.

He saw the aftermath of that final ambush near Crookback Mountain, and saw Melkhior being dragged from the icy tomb of the pass by Neferata’s servants. By then, W’soran had been long gone and far away, having burned his way free of the snow and rock. They had taken Melkhior back to the Silver Pinnacle, where Melkhior had traded on his knowledge of his master to buy himself a few more years of life.

What did you promise them? Did you kneel at Neferata’s feet and claim to be able to drain my secrets from my corpse? Did you swear that in devouring me, you would learn all that I knew and employ it for Neferata’s benefit? If his throat hadn’t been a gaping ruin, W’soran might have laughed. He almost admired Melkhior’s sheer stubborn refusal to admit defeat. It was one of the few things they had in common.

Ah, but we both know that you had no intention of giving her what she wanted, did you, my son? Melkhior’s thoughts whirred and flitted like frightened birds as W’soran spoke into his mind. You spent years hunting me, hounding my trail, and for what? To give up what you learned to her? No, you have never been one for sharing, have you? She must have seen that. That is why she sent her hounds with you — to see that you returned. Did you think that you would fight them? That you could win? Or was the thought of servitude nothing next to your petulant desire to defeat me, and to prove yourself the master?

He had had time to think, in his years of isolation. Not all of his acolytes had died — some had been smart enough to flee the battle at Mourkain or Melkhior’s madness, and they had found him in the wilderness and he had begun again. But not because he intended to play the game, no, he knew better than that now.

This fortress, even himself — it was all bait.

Were you impressed with my acting skills? Did you even wonder why I desired the books now, when I had ever before been willing to sacrifice them for my safety? Of course you didn’t, because you never understood that they are merely tools and of little consequence to one such as I. Bait, Melkhior, bait for the beast, bait for the trap, he thought, bait for you, my most faithful son!

He had learned his lessons. Before, he had been drawn in and spitted on his own hubris. He had made too many enemies, shown too much of his power. They knew him now, his foes. They had drawn him from his den, and seen his teeth and claws, and they would not rest until he was caged or dead.

He had been caged enough for one lifetime. That left death, the ultimate escape.

Webs within webs and plans within plans; flight had always been his preferred option, regardless of what he told himself. Why do you always run, that had been Ushoran’s question.

And the answer was… survival.

To outlive and outlast his enemies was the only vengeance worth the name. Contests of strength were for warriors and brutes and W’soran was neither. He had been fooled, for a time, into thinking he was, even as Nagash had, but unlike Nagash, he knew better now. Power — true power — was not measured in heads on posts or kneeling foes, but simply in being the last man standing. To win ultimate victory, all one had to do was wait for a time. All one had to do was persist.

I am become death, he thought. I am still your master, boy, and you are my tool, and you have not an iota of the will needed to deny me! He dragged Melkhior close, so close that he could smell the other vampire’s fear, and he lunged, driving his fangs into Melkhior’s throat. Goodbye, my son. In the end, at the last, you have proven your use as you always desired.

Melkhior screamed. And W’soran died.

W’soran’s jaws spasmed and then released their grip. He flopped to the ground. As the echoes of his scream faded, Melkhior opened his eyes and stared at his talons in something akin to wonder. They were strong, not withered or practically mummified, but fleshy and powerful looking.

‘Ha,’ he hissed. ‘Death…’

‘Melkhior,’ the Lahmian said. He looked at her, putting a name to the face — Khemalla. It took him a further moment to recall that she was speaking to him.

‘Yes, I am — well,’ he rasped. He looked down at the shrivelled thing at his feet. ‘He, however, is not.’

‘He looked as if he were going to kill you,’ Khemalla said, sinking to her haunches beside the corpse. ‘And then it appeared as if he just… gave up.’

‘He was tired of running,’ Melkhior said.

‘What?’ Khemalla looked up at him.

‘He was old. Far older than most things walking this world, and he was tired. Why do you think he waited for us here? We didn’t ambush him… he knew we were coming. He just didn’t know when.’ He looked down at the body. ‘Good riddance to him.’

He turned and looked at the vault. Khemalla rose to her feet. ‘The Strigoi are still out there somewhere. We should go.’

The Strigoi did not serve them, he recalled suddenly, flipping through his memories and grabbing hold of the right one. Though Neferata’s hounds had sniffed out the old wolf’s lair first, they were not the only hunters on his trail. Ushoran too — or perhaps Nagash — desired to control W’soran, and to make use of his power.

Well, too late for that now.

‘I think not,’ Melkhior said. He looked at her. ‘You and your sisters can handle them easily enough. And I will need time to… consume his secrets and make them my own, several days at least.’

Khemalla’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do not attempt to deceive us, sorcerer. One does not enter lightly into bargains with the Queen of Mysteries.’

‘Poor, foolish Melkhior, deceive the mistress of the Silver Pinnacle? Perish the thought,’ Melkhior said. ‘I am not that old monster, woman. I wish peace, or at least a lack of enmity between myself and your sisterhood. I have no interest in games of power or empires.’

‘But you will help us,’ Khemalla said warily.

‘Oh yes, yes, a bargain is a bargain,’ Melkhior said. ‘I will help your queen refine the teachings of Morath, and I will deliver unto her the pick of what resides in these vaults, as promised. And then, I will vanish, and leave your lot and Ushoran’s to squabble over these pitiful mountains in peace.’

Khemalla stared at him for a moment, and then nodded tersely. She sheathed her blade and turned away. In the blink of an eye, she was gone; truly gone, and not simply hiding.

‘Yes, a few days I think. That should be more than enough to see to things. And then… what? What then for poor — ah — Melkhior, eh,’ he murmured, looking again at his hand.

He looked down at the shrivelled corpse, as if expecting an answer. When none was forthcoming, he knelt. He reached out a hand, as if to touch the slack features and the glazed eye, now forever unblinking. He reached up and traced the edge of his own eye. Then, in a quick motion, he scooped up the body and, cradling it to his chest, he turned to face the vault.

He spoke a single word. It hummed through the air and the stone of the walls and link by link, the chains began to rattle. They rose to the height of a man and in the wide space before the stone, motes of pale light appeared and blossomed into the same ragged phantoms as before. They screamed in silence, writhing beneath the weight of the chains as they began to move forward, straining against the wedge, pulling the chains. The wedge groaned in its housing and began to pull free of the hole as it had earlier. In moments, the vault was once more open and strange lights could be seen within.

And the Master of Death smiled.