Master of Death

Chapter Two

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.

More rat ogres closed in, driven from behind the ranked war machines by the whips of their masters. The brutes had been freed from their chains and even now most of them were running headlong towards what remained of the front ranks of the undead army. W’soran dashed past them, avoiding a casual swipe from one of the closest.

Even as he moved, W’soran saw the skaven war-engine fire again. Crackling green light burst into being and washed over the undead ranks, dissolving bone and melting ancient armour to slag. The advantage had been taken from them in an instant. W’soran saw Rudek and the other Strigoi loping towards the party of skaven on the nearest machine’s platform. Rudek was no fool, despite his swaggering manner. He knew as well as W’soran that that weapon signified a quick defeat for the Strigoi, unless they could put it out of commission.

W’soran moved quickly after the Strigoi. Possibilities and potentialities rushed through his head as he ran. Among the skaven on that platform was one whose fur was not brown or black but a filthy off-white, and W’soran knew enough to know what that implied. The Strigoi reached the platform and bounded across it. Two heavy-bodied rat ogres, who stood to either side of the group of skaven, lumbered forward to meet the vampires with massive mattocks clutched in their paws. Unlike the scarred and chained brutes he had just avoided, these were well-fed and armoured. They were likely bodyguards or pets of some description.

The Strigoi closed with the beasts, looking like hounds going after bears. Rudek dived past them, heading for the skaven. W’soran cleared the edge of the engine platform even as Rudek removed a burly skaven’s head with a casual backhand. More black-furred creatures closed in, striking at the Strigoi with halberds. Rudek weaved around the blows, and his sword looped out, repaying them in kind.

The white-furred ratkin watched the Strigoi butcher its guards with visible disdain. It was a tall creature, and clad in colourful, if filthy, robes. Heavy horns curled from either side of its skull, and its eyes glowed with a terrible, easily recognisable green hue. By all rights, the creature should have fled by now, W’soran thought — instead, it seemed to be eager for the confrontation. Almost languidly, the skaven raised a paw and gestured.

Green fire boiled from its palm and seared a black scar across Rudek’s shoulder. He screamed and flopped over backwards, clutching at the smoking wound. W’soran stabbed his scimitar into the slimy wood of the platform and laughed. The skaven turned, energy leaking from its eyes and mouth. One hand was full of abn-i-khat, which it hurriedly shoved into its mouth as he approached.

‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘I expected as much. They eat it, you know.’ He directed the last towards Rudek, who hissed at him. W’soran gestured absently, his eyes on the white skaven. ‘Oh yes, my yes, they eat it, they secrete, and bathe in it for all I know. It provides them with the energy for their magics as well, even as it dissolves them from the inside. Foolish little beasts…’

The skaven snarled and gestured sharply. Green fire washed towards W’soran and he slashed his arms out, dispersing it with barely a twinge of effort. ‘They are quite powerful, though, in the right circumstances. Facing an unprepared opponent, for instance,’ W’soran continued, stepping between Rudek and the skaven.

More green flame, darker this time, and hotter. Green foam bubbled from the creature’s mouth, and its eyes bulged as it thrust both hands forward. Its claws had blackened and its flesh was peeling. Thin cracks of green had appeared in its skin, showing easily through its patchy fur.

It was powerful, but not so much that it was a threat. Another shrieking burst and W’soran’s own magics deflected the energy, sending it curling towards the Strigoi and the rat ogres. All died, consumed by the weird flames. W’soran chuckled. ‘Yes, quite strong. It’ll be dead soon though. You can always tell when their skin begins to crack and flake like that. It’s burning up from the inside out.’

The war-engine shuddered. W’soran’s eye flicked upwards. The massive chunk of abn-i-khat mounted in the weapon seemed to be reacting with the white skaven’s magics. The stone was unstable at the best of times, but right now it was smoking and sparking. The dull internal glow that it always seemed to have had brightened to an almost blinding degree.

Calculations rattled through his skull. The simplest solution was invariably the best. He lunged forward through green fire and wrapped his claws in the skaven’s robes. It squealed in fear for the first time as W’soran swung it easily into the air. Its stunted body radiated a strange, unnerving heat, and his flesh puckered and steamed as he drew the creature over his head. He met its wide-eyed gaze and exposed his fangs. ‘I have a theory. Let us test it together, eh?’

Then he hurled the screaming skaven towards the glowing chunk of stone.

The explosion, when it occurred, was far from disappointing. The top of the war-engine erupted in a gout of fiery emerald. The upper mechanisms toppled, smoking, and smashed into those of the next engine in line. Further explosions ran down through its frame in a massive chain reaction, torn apart by the very thing they had used to deal destruction. Fire washed past him without touching him. W’soran watched in satisfaction as blistering, emerald smoke filled the cavern, thrown up by the explosion. He could hear the rumble of collapsing stone and the squeals of the skaven as their victory was snatched from them. He turned to Rudek. ‘I see you still live,’ he said.

Rudek grimaced and made to sit up. He was healing slowly. The touch of the abn-i-khat was deadly even to a vampire. ‘I suppose you have proven your use yet again, sorcerer.’ He grinned weakly. ‘Vorag’s concubine will be displeased.’

‘Will she now?’ W’soran said mildly. Inwardly, however, he was seething. That damnable witch! Lupa Stregga — one of Neferata’s harlots — clung to Vorag’s cloak, whispering in his ear and guiding him. She had done so since before the Bloodytooth had decided to remove himself from Mourkain; indeed, W’soran suspected that she was the reason for Vorag’s rebellion against Ushoran. As ever, when something went wrong, Neferata could be found at the heart of it. A queen-spider, crouching in her web, weaving plots and schemes to trap all the little flies… but there were flies, and then there were flies. She’d bitten off more than she could chew with Ushoran.

For a moment, he was again back in the black pyramid of Kadon, around which the city of Mourkain had sprouted like gangrene in a wound. He was again in that moment, that split-second moment when the ghost of Alcadizzar, the last Prince of Rasetra, had been drawn from his ignoble tomb by sorcerous hooks and forced to relinquish the black crown he held to Ushoran. He saw it all, like a phantom pantomime occurring across the surface of his mind. Mourkain had been built on Alcadizzar’s bones and the ghost of the crown — Nagash’s crown — had drawn them all there. All of them — Ushoran, Abhorash, Neferata and even he himself — had felt its malevolent pull. It spoke to them, whispered sweet nothings into their skulls and promised eternity.

But it had spoken to Ushoran strongest of all, apparently. And now, the crown had him. It rode him the way the Strigoi rode their stubby mountain ponies, filling his crooked mind with Nagash’s thoughts and his twisted frame with Nagash’s power.

In that moment, that brief flicker of time, W’soran had craved that power for himself. But Neferata had been quicker. And what had that gotten her, but abuse, humiliation and enslavement? She had been swatted like a fly by the darkling thing Ushoran was becoming. And he was becoming something — he was a chrysalis, a worm on his way to becoming… what? Something terrifying. W’soran thought that it was a fate that had, perhaps, been intended for him. Might still be intended for him…

‘She wanted us to kill you, you know,’ Rudek said as he heaved himself up. His skin was blistered and peeling. Cracks of green mingled with the veins of black in his flesh, as the lingering traces of abn-i-khat spread through him. ‘From the very minute you caught up with us, your ragged little pack of tomb-robbers at your back and Abhorash on your trail, she wanted you dead. Said we could buy a few months grace from Ushoran’s wrath with your head. Vorag caught on and disciplined her. I think she rather enjoyed it. The Bloodytooth thinks we need you, that we need your magics. He is frightened of Ushoran…’

‘And you, Rudek, what do you think?’ W’soran said carefully. Thoughts of fate and the past faded, obscured by plans for the future.

‘I think you have betrayed more than one master, old monster. And you will betray more before your sands are run out,’ Rudek said.

‘You are wise, in your time,’ W’soran said. He reached out and pressed a finger to the still bubbling wound in Rudek’s shoulder. ‘Too wise, I fear. Goodbye, Rudek, your cousin sends his regards.’

The green cracks suddenly widened. Rudek’s flesh ripped and split, and the vampire made to scream. It was childishly easy to agitate the lingering residue in the wound, and return it to volatility. Abn-i-khat reacted strongly to the merest whisper of the winds of magic. The green cracks spread, tunnelling through Rudek’s flesh. He tried to jerk back from W’soran’s fingertips, but was held in place by the curling magics that shuddered through him. Steam belched from his open jaws and his eyes went from red to pink to the ugly white of a badly boiled egg.

With a sound like meat sliding off the bone, Rudek toppled over, a burnt-out husk. W’soran flicked bits of cooked flesh from his fingers and stepped over the body to reclaim his scimitar. The smoke from the explosion was clearing as he dropped off the wrecked engine and strode back towards the battle. Skaven fled past him, scurrying for their holes. This army was broken. Skeletons, some blackened and burnt, tromped past in pursuit. Several Strigoi were with them. None of them so much as looked at W’soran, which suited him. There’d be questions, in time, but not until well after the fact. And none of them could challenge him.

The tread of heavy feet caught his attention. The crypt horrors and their burden approached through the smoke. The palanquin was undamaged, though its occupants could not say the same. Several were missing, and W’soran wondered whether Melkhior had followed his example and put paid to a few perceived obstacles. He grinned at the thought, amused. Melkhior was hard on his fellow apprentices. Then, he was a barbarian, and barbarians knew only one way to climb in status.

The barbarian in question crouched on the edge of the palanquin, leaning on his sword. He peered down at W’soran. ‘The battle is won, my master,’ Melkhior said.

‘So it is. Your cousin has had an accident, I’m afraid.’

‘He was always very clumsy,’ Melkhior said. ‘Vorag has arrived.’

‘Good,’ W’soran said. He jerked his chin at the palanquin. ‘You saw battle, then?’

Melkhior shifted uncomfortably. ‘Olgik and Yuri fell to the spears of the ratkin- fixed through the heart, the both of them.’

‘Then pull the spears out and wake them up,’ W’soran said.

‘The ghouls trod on them afterwards. I’m afraid there wasn’t much to save,’ Melkhior said. ‘And the rats got what was left.’ He motioned to the ground. Thousands of black rats squirmed and squealed across the battleground. They came with the skaven, but rarely left with them. The vermin tore and fought over the dead, stripping the flesh from bone in moments. W’soran eyed the rats for a moment, and flicked away one that got too close with the tip of his blade. He looked up at Melkhior.

‘The rats,’ he said.

‘The rats, yes,’ Melkhior said.

‘I trust you recovered their papyri and tomes from their bodies?’ All of his apprentices travelled with their own copies of the lore that W’soran, and they themselves, had accumulated. They fought over the scraps of his knowledge in much the same manner as the rats. As such, every one of them had secrets the others did not — bits of sorcerous lore he’d given them as a reward for some small task.

Melkhior hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.

W’soran laughed. ‘Good. Then the loss is minimal.’

‘Trust you to think that way, beast,’ a woman’s voice said.

W’soran turned. He restrained a snarl as the tall, Amazonian form of Lupa Stregga stalked towards him across the carpet of rats and bodies, her sword-arm wet to the elbow with blood and her face equally smeared. ‘Where is Rudek?’ Stregga asked.

‘Dead,’ W’soran said.

‘Why am I not surprised?’ she said harshly. She glanced at the palanquin. ‘Hello, Melkhior. Have you begun to regret accompanying the old leech from Mourkain yet?’

Melkhior stood. ‘Watch your tongue, she-wolf, or I’ll-’

‘Or you’ll what, coward?’ a voice bellowed from above.

W’soran stepped back as the great shape landed heavily between the palanquin and Stregga. Where it had come from, whether it had been clinging to the roof of the cavern or squatting nearby, he couldn’t say. The rock cracked beneath its weight and the rats fled as it rose from its crouch. It was a brute-shape, all muscle and hair. Great, cavernous jaws snapped at the air as hot eyes blazed at Melkhior.

A greased scalp lock snapped like a whip as the monstrosity spun about to face W’soran. A curved talon pointed at him. ‘Keep your curs on a leash, W’soran, or I’ll crack their skulls and suck their bones dry myself,’ Vorag Bloodytooth roared.

He had changed much in the years since he’d fled Mourkain at the head of a rebel army. Where once he’d been a man, bigger than most perhaps, he was now as frightful as Melkhior, with the bloated musculature and savage claws and fangs of an animal; his once proud beard had become a tangled mess and hair grew in lank patches from his burly form, bursting through the rents in his badly-kept armour. Only his scalp-lock remained pristine, though whether out of his vanity or Stregga’s attentions, W’soran didn’t know. Behind the hair, his face was a nightmare of devilish ridges and bony growths. Inevitably, such a physical ruination seemed to be the lot of every person gifted with Ushoran’s tainted blood-kiss, though the beast had always been close to the skin in Vorag. He’d been one of the first Strigoi turned when Ushoran had assumed the throne. Vorag had pledged his sword to the new king with a rapidity that was still spoken of with some awe in the snake-pit court of Mourkain.

But Timagal Vorag had grown dissatisfied all too quickly with his new master. And he’d found a co-conspirator of sorts in Neferata when she arrived at last, looking to worm her way into Ushoran’s good graces. Together, those two had caused much trouble. Separated from Neferata, Vorag was no less dangerous, especially with a creature like Stregga whispering in his ear. Neferata might have been smashed into subservience by Ushoran, but she had not ceased weaving webs.

‘Of course, Lord Vorag,’ W’soran said, spreading his arms and bowing low. Melkhior had done the same, as had his other apprentices. Vorag grunted and turned away, to survey the aftermath of the battle.

As he rose, W’soran saw a familiar shape behind Stregga. His robes were stained with blood and other substances and the heavy iron gauntlets covering his withered talons were splotched with rust and scorch marks. Zoar inclined his head to his master, his skeletal features twisted in a smile. W’soran smirked; Zoar was, of all of his remaining followers, one of the most capable, besides Melkhior.

He glanced at the latter. Melkhior’s face was hard to read, given the extent of its deformity, but W’soran knew him well enough to know he was angry. Melkhior hated Zoar. Zoar, for his part, pretended not to notice Melkhior at all. Zoar was the last of the Yaghur, the primitive fen-dwellers that Nagash had made his own when he’d raised Nagashizzar from the mountain and made it his citadel. W’soran had seen his intelligence, and claimed him. He had claimed many; few of Nagash’s followers had been interested in self-aware servants.

Zoar, as such, felt himself privileged over all others. W’soran had never had to discipline him, as he had Melkhior or Morath. The Yaghur knew his place, and was content with it. Or such was the impression he gave.

‘Where is Rudek?’ Vorag growled, stroking his ratty beard. He’d calmed slightly. W’soran could see that blood matted his hairy arms up to his shoulders. He’d seen hard fighting in the tunnels. So had the other Strigoi — there were more than a dozen of them, all seasoned campaigners.

Of them, W’soran’s closest rival was Sanzak. The brute-faced Strigoi was covered in the scars he’d acquired in life, before Vorag had turned him. Of all the Strigoi not under W’soran’s thumb, he was one of the closest to understanding how to manipulate the winds of death, thanks to the efforts of Zoar. W’soran pretended not to know, as such a liaison had provided him with more useful information than a host of spies. Despite that, and despite the fact that Sanzak looked like the losing end of a fight, W’soran recognised the scarred brute’s cunning. Even without Zoar’s influence, he had, in his centuries, begun to study things which did not concern him. And, most distressingly, to teach others, which meant he was dangerous.

‘Dead,’ Stregga said, responding before W’soran could.

Vorag’s eyes swivelled to W’soran. ‘How did he die?’

‘The skaven were accompanied by a sorcerer.’ W’soran gestured to the ruptured and still-smoking war machine with his scimitar. ‘I dealt with it when he proved himself inadequate to the task.’

The other Strigoi bristled visibly. Vorag merely grunted. ‘I seem to lose more of my followers that way. Were they all inadequate, then?’

‘I make no judgements,’ W’soran said.

Stregga gave a sharp laugh. W’soran glared at her. Vorag raised a talon, silencing them. As the battle-fury faded, Vorag became more human looking. W’soran watched the change with interest. He had long theorised that the bestial nature of the Strigoi was as much the result of their close proximity to Nagash’s crown as it was to their inexplicable love of the foul-tasting blood of ghouls. A little less of Vorag the man returned after each battle, a little more of the beast remained.

‘Dead is dead,’ Vorag grunted. ‘The rats are beaten. We have driven them into the depths.’

‘They are not beaten,’ W’soran said, peering about him at the thousand and one holes and shafts that decorated the walls and floor of the cavern. ‘They are merely taking stock of their situation.’

‘And how would you know that?’ Sanzak barked.

‘I have fought them before, as you well know,’ W’soran said. ‘There are millions of them, scurrying in these walls, watching us even now. We will have to uproot this mountain and tear it inside out to fully cleanse it.’

‘And why would we want to bother?’ Stregga asked, reaching out to tear a strip from Zoar’s robe. The vampire frowned, but fell silent at W’soran’s look. Stregga cleaned her blade with the already-filthy cloth and tossed it aside with a grimace of disgust. ‘There is nothing for us here, my love.’ She directed the latter at Vorag, who was studying the remains of the war-engine, seemingly taking no notice of the discussion going on around him.

‘Nothing but a ready-built fortress, should we choose to capitalise on it,’ W’soran said mildly.

‘There is a fortress waiting for us to the north,’ Stregga said.

‘Ah, yes, so you say,’ W’soran spat, ‘but we have yet to hear from your mistress. For all we know, she’s failed, and the Silver Pinnacle has resisted Ushoran’s attempt to annex it. Or perhaps she’s chosen to embrace her new life of servitude, and decided against her mad plan of convincing Ushoran to take the hold.’ He leered at Stregga and spread his hands. ‘Or maybe she’s dead, her head decorating a spike in the halls of the dwarfs, eh?’

‘You shut your filthy mouth,’ Stregga growled, lifting her sword.

‘Quiet,’ Vorag rumbled. He turned, glaring at them both. ‘What is that machine, sorcerer?’

‘A skaven weapon,’ W’soran said. ‘They are a clever species.’ He looked at Vorag, gauging his mood. ‘There are likely more such, far below.’

‘What does it do?’

‘It fires lightning,’ W’soran said.

‘Lightning,’ Vorag repeated. His face scrunched up in an expression of consideration. ‘Such a weapon would prove useful, in the coming war.’

‘Indeed it would, most puissant lord,’ Zoar said, sidling towards Vorag. ‘And my master is just the man to learn the secrets of these engines for you, oh wise Vorag.’ W’soran hid his smile. He had placed Zoar close to Vorag in order to counteract Stregga’s whispers. Zoar’s ingratiating manner and practiced unctuousness appealed to Vorag.

‘We do not need such things,’ Stregga said. Several of the Strigoi growled in agreement.

Vorag turned. ‘What we need and do not need is not for you to say, she-wolf,’ he snarled, the sound ripping through the cavern. Stregga didn’t flinch. Vorag’s molten gaze fell on W’soran. ‘How long would you require, sorcerer?’

‘Several months, at least,’ W’soran said, sheathing his scimitar. ‘I will need a working one, of course. We’ll have to delve deeper into the ratkin warrens.’

‘Which means we will need to fortify this place,’ Vorag said, looking around. ‘We shall need a citadel with which to push against our foes. A bulwark against attack…’ Even as he said it, W’soran knew that the Bloodytooth wasn’t talking just about the skaven. Vorag was frightened. There was a shadow growing in the north, and even simple brutes like Vorag could see it. It was a shadow that W’soran had helped to unleash. And that, given enough time, he thought he could control.

The only question was whether it would consume him before he got that chance.