Master of Death

Chapter Four

Nagashizzar

(Year -1168 Imperial Calendar)

Ushoran screamed. He snarled and gibbered like a wild beast as the wights held tight to the chains which bound him. A dozen of the dead men were required for the task, and W’soran had serious doubts as to whether it would be enough. Ushoran’s strength had been great even before he’d accepted Neferata’s gift of immortality.

The chains rattled as the vampire thrashed. His arms were pinned to his sides and the bonds had been looped about him multiple times. Even so, Ushoran managed to yank one of his captors from his feet. The wight slid across the forecourt, armour rattling. Ushoran pounced like a desert-fox, jumping straight up and bringing both feet down on the wight’s chest like the talons of a raptor. Armour crumpled and burst and the wight flailed as Ushoran crouched and fastened his jaws on the front of the dead man’s skull. Bone crunched and Ushoran jerked back, spitting fragments.

‘Impressive,’ Arkhan murmured. They stood on a balcony overlooking the forecourt, watching Ushoran’s struggles as they debated his fate. Arkhan wanted to leave him out for the sun. W’soran, however, thought Ushoran might prove useful, after a fashion.

Arkhan flexed his hand. After they’d cornered Ushoran in the ghoul-warrens beneath Nagashizzar, the vampire had attempted to bite off Arkhan’s hand. He would’ve succeeded, had W’soran not intervened. ‘He is far stronger than I was led to believe your kind could be.’

‘He is nothing. A cur, to Neferata’s lioness,’ W’soran said. He had been surprised to see the other vampire in the depths. He’d thought Ushoran dead and good riddance. Somehow, however, the Lord of Masks had managed to survive and find his way to Nagashizzar. He had changed much in his time in the wilderness. W’soran had always suspected that something unpleasant lurked beneath Ushoran’s bland exterior. He was a monster now, slab-muscled and animal-faced, with eyes like lanterns and fangs like daggers. He was mad as well, driven insane by the wounds he sustained so many years before at the final battle of Lahmia. In time, with the proper nourishment, he might come out of it — or perhaps not.

Ushoran had led them a merry chase for many months in the depths. The ghouls had swarmed at his command, attacking their forces with a surprising ferocity. There were thousands of the corpse-eaters in the warrens below the fortress, and somehow Ushoran had roused them all to war. What he had been planning for his army, he had yet to share. They had captured him in the mines, ambushing him in a battle that had taken hours. In the end, the ghouls had been put to flight, and Ushoran captured.

‘Neferata,’ Arkhan said, and looked at him. W’soran wondered whether it was only his imagination that made it seem as if the liche’s eye-sockets blazed more brightly at the thought of the queen of Lahmia. ‘Yes, she is a lioness. And you, W’soran, what are you?’

‘I am true to myself,’ W’soran said, with a shrug.

‘AND WHAT IS THAT, W’SORAN?’ The voice was as cold as the grave and as deep as an ocean trench. Both Arkhan and W’soran froze at the sound of it. A heavy hand, more metal than bone, settled on W’soran’s shoulder, its talons not quite piercing the flesh beneath his robes. ‘WHAT IS W’SORAN OF LAHMIA?’

‘Your servant, my master,’ W’soran whispered.

‘AHHHH,’ Nagash breathed. Metal squealed as he moved past them to the edge of the balcony. Flames crackled silently around his grinning skull. The Undying King loomed over his servants. In death, he had become a giant. He grasped the balcony and the stone cracked beneath his weight. ‘AND WHAT IS THIS?’ he asked.

‘A beast,’ Arkhan said.

‘A tool,’ W’soran interjected. He glared at the liche.

‘WHAT NEED HAVE I OF ANOTHER TOOL?’ Nagash rasped. The sound of it scraped across W’soran’s nerves. Nagash turned. ‘I HAVE ALL THE TOOLS I REQUIRE.’

‘Ushoran is… he is another of my kind, master. And cunning,’ W’soran said quickly. ‘He could be useful in your coming campaign to take that which is yours. They all could, master…’

‘ALL?’

‘Neferata, Abhorash, Ankhat, the others; imagine what sort of champions they would make, master,’ W’soran said. ‘Imagine the horror they could wreak in the Great Land, at your behest. They — we — are walking plagues, master. Our numbers can swell and grow with ease, and we can hunt the treacherous men of Nehekhara like dogs.’

‘A PLAGUE,’ Nagash said slowly. The fires around his skull seemed to curl higher and brighter as he turned back to gaze down at Ushoran once more. ‘YES…’

Crookback Mountain

(Year -323 Imperial Calendar)

The orc howled in brute agony as W’soran carefully peeled back the flesh of its barrel torso and pinned it to the wooden table. Even with its vitals exposed, the creature refused to either give in to shock or, as was more common, die. W’soran stepped back and gestured sharply. The ghouls squatting to either side of the table lunged up, grabbing the chains that dangled above the table and hauled on them. With a grinding squeal, the table was cranked up from a horizontal position to a vertical one.

W’soran had taken the skaven workshop for his own after the final battle and where it had once been full of squirming brown-furred bodies and strange machines, now only the latter remained, carefully disassembled and placed so that he might examine each cog and pulley. Great cages crafted from bone and wood now occupied a large portion of the space, crammed full of bellicose orcs and screaming goblins, taken captive in raids. Piecemeal zombies, crafted from the limbs of skaven, men and orcs, crawled, lumbered and scuttled about the cavern on various tasks.

Great alembics bubbled and hissed atop the heavy workbench W’soran had installed, as strange fluids sluiced through them. It had taken him months to craft the alembics, teasing the glass out of black sands brought from the shores of the Sour Sea. Bellows constructed from the vertebral plates of the monstrous beasts that roamed the deep caverns and the tanned and stretched hide of a rat ogre wheezed and whispered as zombies unceasingly pressed on them, circulating the fluid in the alembics. Other pathetic patchwork corpses saw to the grinding and sifting of W’soran’s ever-dwindling supply of abn-i-khat, or the cleansing and arrangement of gathered bones for future purposes. Generations of skaven, and before them goblins, had lived and died in and on the mountain and W’soran’s mindless servants scoured every crevasse and crag, hunting for remains. Vorag required an army, and W’soran knew of no better way to provide him one than to use what was at hand.

In the months following the capture of the mountain from its previous owners, W’soran had again begun his interrupted experiments in bone-craft and flesh-weaving. Even as he had created the crypt horrors, he had devised more warrior creations, based on ancient theories passed down to the priests of the Great Land. Giant scorpion-engines crafted from bone or slithering serpent-things made from stitched flesh and stretched muscle patrolled the lower depths ceaselessly for any new incursion from the skaven. It only took a bit of magic to give a semblance of life to the conglomerate horrors.

The table settled at a steep angle and the orc bellowed in pain as his centre of gravity descended, and his weight pulled on the heavy iron spikes that had been driven through his meaty wrists and ankles to hold him in place. Another chain had been looped beneath the orc’s neck and as the beast slumped, the chain caught tight around its neck. It gagged and its piggy eyes bulged in mingled pain and hatred as it glared at its tormentor. Fresh, brackish blood oozed from around the spikes and the creature shuddered.

W’soran watched it twitch and writhe. Then, with the air of a gourmand, he reached below the orc’s ribcage and pulled something out. ‘Redundancies of redundancies,’ he murmured. He glanced over at the crouched shape of one of his apprentices. The vampire was robed and cowled, and only its clawed digits were visible as it scratched out notes on a roll of parchment with a pen made from a fingerbone. ‘Its heart and lungs show variation from human or skaven organs. Rudimentary, but still significant,’ W’soran said, more loudly. Dutifully, the apprentice scratched out his master’s observations.

Idly, W’soran took a bite of the lump of meat he held. He chewed slowly, sucking the blood from it. For all that it tasted foul, he’d found the blood of the greenskins to be a potent stimulant. He tossed the nearly-drained hunk of meat to the closest of the ghouls, which snapped it out of the air like a starving dog. Each of the ghouls was covered in jagged branding marks as well the pale weals of old incisions.

The orc groaned and its prognathous jaw gaped, showing off its splintered tusks. Crude blue tattoos covered its flesh and its musculature was overdeveloped to the point of ridiculousness. W’soran watched its powerful heart thud inside its cage of bone. Its heartrate wasn’t slowing, despite the partial vivisection.

W’soran sniffed and leaned close to one of its brawny arms. With a flick of his talons, he sliced open its flesh and slid the quivering green hide back from muscle fibre and bone. ‘Increased muscle strength,’ he said. He hooked a section of its bicep muscle and gave it an experimental tug, eliciting a shriek from the orc. ‘The muscle roots are anchored far more firmly than in men or skaven. And the limbs continue to function well after separation from the rest of the body.’ He jerked the muscles free of the arm and the orc arched its back. Its skull drummed on the table and froth gushed from its mouth.

W’soran paid no heed to its writhing. He peeled back the layers of the muscle as if it were a fruit, his good eye narrowing. ‘Hnf, it’s attempting to repair itself. Intriguing,’ he muttered. His eyes flickered to the side, where a heavy cage hung from the ceiling. ‘What do you think, Iskar?’

The huddled shape inside didn’t move. W’soran frowned. He gestured sharply and the sigils that crowded the heavy brass collar on the skaven’s neck flared with an eerie light. Iskar shrieked and uncoiled like a spring.

The skaven looked the worse for wear from its years of captivity; its once white fur, what remained of it, was dingy, yellow and matted with filth. Burn scars covered its hairless skull and most of its body. It was completely blind, its eyes the colour of fish-bellies. W’soran had kept it alive out of curiosity. He had been intrigued to learn of the sturdy malleability of the species. Skin grafts from dead skaven and goblins had repaired most of the damage that W’soran’s flames had done to the creature in their battle, and he felt, given the proper raw materials, he could repair the creature’s eyes. Of course, it was more amusing to leave the beast blind and helpless.

Iskar hissed in his general direction, exposing blackened gums and brown teeth. ‘Kill you,’ it tittered. ‘Kill you.’

‘Yes, yes,’ W’soran said, prodding the cage. Iskar huddled back, whimpering. ‘After two years of those same two words I’m beginning to wonder if I actually managed to repair your voice box or not. Remind me why I keep you alive, rat.’

Iskar’s nostrils flared and its lips writhed back from its fangs. The blistered tail lashed and it made a sound like a giggle. W’soran shook his head, disgusted. He wondered if perhaps he had gotten everything out of the beast that there was to get. With a sniff, he turned back to his current study.

With a roar, the orc wrenched its good arm free of the spike that had pinned it and flung out a hand, clawing for W’soran’s throat. A blade flashed, cutting through the heavy clouds of incense before chopping into the orc’s forearm. The brute yowled as the blade was wrenched free and then sent slicing into its skull with a sound like a melon being dropped.

Melkhior jerked his blade free and examined it critically. ‘Damnable brutes are too tough by half,’ he growled. He looked at W’soran. ‘You should pay more attention to what’s going on around you, master.’

‘Why would I bother? That’s what you’re for, Melkhior,’ W’soran said. He tossed the chunk of muscle to the still furiously scribbling apprentice. ‘Collect muscle tissue from the remaining specimens and let it soak. We’ll begin crafting our newest warriors tomorrow,’ he said. He turned to Melkhior. ‘Come to help, or to ask for it yourself, my son?’

‘What are you planning?’ Melkhior asked, avoiding the question.

‘Orc muscle combined with goblin frame and skaven flesh and hide — small, sturdy and less prone to rot. Perfect scouts for the depths and high reaches,’ W’soran said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. ‘They’ll hold together for months before they begin to degrade; longer if they’re properly preserved.’

‘Why not simply resurrect more skaven?’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ W’soran said. He patted Melkhior’s cheek. The other vampire flinched and W’soran chuckled. ‘Death is not the end, my son. And we must learn to husband our meagre resources in these harsh climes. To improve upon base creation and make something glorious here, in our citadel.’

‘It might not be our citadel for much longer,’ Melkhior said.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Neferata… has sent word. From the north,’ Melkhior said. ‘She has succeeded. The Silver Pinnacle is hers, and the army Ushoran sent with her — what’s left of it — is hers as well. Two Lahmians arrived not an hour ago.’ His gaze turned accusing. ‘They bypassed your defences.’

W’soran grunted. ‘That is… unfortunate. What about Vorag?’

‘They are with him now. He is holding a council.’

W’soran frowned. ‘Why was I not informed?’

‘Why do you think?’ Melkhior snapped. W’soran caught him by the throat even as the words left his mouth and hefted him. The ancient vampire stepped towards the cages, propelling Melkhior back against them. Orcs howled with glee as they grabbed at Melkhior, tearing his robes and gouging his flesh. He spat and snarled, but couldn’t free himself from W’soran’s grip.

‘Watch your tone, my apprentice. You are not irreplaceable,’ W’soran said, with deadly mildness. He stepped back and let Melkhior drop. The younger vampire rubbed his throat and stooped to scoop up his sword. W’soran said, ‘Why wasn’t I called to the council?’

‘Stregga,’ Melkhior spat. ‘She has Vorag wrapped around her finger. It’s all Zoar or I can do to counter her machinations, while you’ve been holed up down here.’

W’soran glared at him. ‘What good are you if you cannot outthink a blood-addled fishwife?’

Melkhior hissed, but looked away. W’soran shook his head. He ran a hand over his leathery pate. His words to the contrary, he wasn’t surprised. Melkhior had all the subtlety of a starving wolf and Zoar, while cunning, had never been the most independent thinker. Lupa Stregga seemed like little more than a feral blood doxy at first glance, but he’d grown familiar with how her mind worked. She possessed a peasant’s cunning and a ruthlessness that he could almost admire.

‘Take me to them. Now,’ W’soran grated.

With Melkhior leading the way, they left the cavern and moved upwards through the mountain. Even with slaves, it would have taken decades to make the mountain habitable. With the dead, however, the rudiments of civilisation had been constructed within a few years. Thousands of zombies and skeletons had worked day and night, bracing caverns and widening tunnels. The corridor from his workshop was braced by the uncomplaining shapes of massive skeletal conglomerations — things composed from the skeletons of many beasts and ghouls, their overlarge limbs bound in sturdy chains and leather straps and the surface of their mouldering bones inscribed with runes of abn-i-khat. They were a parody of the great ushabti of Nehekhara, and like those monstrous statues, there was a faint flicker of awareness in the eye-sockets of their wide, blended skulls.

More such creations — part guard dog and part decoration — lined the corridors and tunnels. A chattering skull, wreathed in sorcerous flames, cast light across a small bend in a tunnel, and the bones of a multitude of skaven had been used to craft a bridge across a gap. Everywhere there were guards, clad in the remnants of the armour and furs they had worn while alive.

‘Who came?’ W’soran asked as they walked. ‘Who was it, the courtesan or that spindly nomad? Who did she send?’

‘No, neither of them,’ Melkhior hissed as he idly traced an old scar on his chest. While they had been in Mourkain, W’soran’s followers and those of Neferata had clashed more than once in the shadows of the blighted city. Melkhior had nearly had his head taken by one of Neferata’s witches — a nomad woman named Rasha. She had transformed into some form of desert cat and torn his apprentice open and hurled him from a rooftop. Melkhior, far from burning with a desire for vengeance, seemed to consider her murderous assault as a form of flirting. There was no accounting for taste with barbarians. W’soran himself had never been inclined to the company of women.

Melkhior shook himself. ‘One is a Strigoi named Layla, the other an Arabyan named Khemalla.’

The names sparked no memories in W’soran’s mind. He grunted irritably. ‘Do you know them?’

‘One was a scullery maid, the other a slave, or so I heard,’ Melkhior said. ‘Neferata prefers her pets already broken.’

W’soran didn’t reply. Melkhior’s biases were showing, and he felt no urgent need to correct his apprentice. If anything, the opposite was true — Neferata chose her followers for reasons other than devotion. Sometimes, he thought she had the right of it. W’soran had always chosen scholars, men like himself. Like minds made for easier work.

But when he’d arrived in Mourkain, Ushoran — damn his eyes — had thrust a bevy of unlettered savages upon him, and demanded he teach them his arts. It was the price of sanctuary and after everything that had occurred in the east, he was happy to pay it. Still, it had meant long years of training brutes like Melkhior in the subtler thought-processes required of a scholar — of them all, only Morath had shown a natural inclination in that regard. Zoar had been helpful in those early days, and the few others who’d accompanied him from Nagashizzar.

Of that group, only Zoar remained. As to whether he or Melkhior, or even Neferata was responsible for that, W’soran had no interest. He cared nothing for any particular acolyte. They were simply tools.

‘What will you do, master? Vorag might be angry if you simply intrude uninvited…’ Melkhior went on.

W’soran smirked. ‘Only if he’s cavorting with them,’ he said. The smirk faded. ‘No, Vorag needs me and he knows it. That slattern of his is the one behind this insult. Where is Zoar?’

‘I left him to watch over our guests,’ Melkhior said. ‘Vorag is giving them a tour, and crowing of his conquests.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you think — could this be a trap? He abandoned her, after all. She is not forgiving of betrayal…’

W’soran chuckled bitterly. ‘She is if there is an advantage for her in it. No, knowing her, she’s already scheming to pull Ushoran’s empire out from under him.’

They reached the main cavern — the courtyard to Vorag’s citadel — a moment later W’soran realised that something was different. There was a smell on the stale air, a whiff of familiar magics. ‘Morath,’ Melkhior growled. ‘I can smell his stink on the air.’

‘No,’ W’soran said. ‘Not quite.’ He looked around the cavern. It had changed much in the years after the skaven had been driven out. The mountain had been all but hollowed out by the burrowing ratkin, and thus easy to make over into something more fitting for the kind of warrior-king Vorag imagined himself to be. The unstable walls of the cavern had been stabilised by the addition of smooth stone slabs and beams of petrified wood which criss-crossed the vast belly of the cavern like the bracers of a mine shaft. Stone stairways and balconies had been constructed, overlooking the interior from on high. Vorag had wanted it to look as much like Ushoran’s palace as possible, though he hadn’t admitted as much openly. It amused W’soran to think of Vorag aping his former king even as he sought to filch his kingdom.

There were cosmetic differences, of course. The nooks and crannies of the cavern had been filled with skulls, and the pelts of skaven, trolls and other beasts of the mountains lined the walls, flayed and stretched as trophies to Vorag’s might. In the years they’d fought and occupied the mountain, Timagal Vorag had made himself quite at home.

Vorag stood in the centre of the cavern, hands behind his back, and a wolf-skin cloak across his brawny shoulders. Stregga stood beside him, as well as Sanzak and a few other Strigoi besides. With them stood Neferata’s envoys, apparently listening to Vorag’s blustering braggadocio with keen interest.

Both were dark-headed, though one was quite obviously of Strigos and the other an Arabyan — not a nomad, but one of the city dwellers. They were dressed in travel-stained leathers and furs, and both had heavy swords belted to their waists. The Arabyan wore a gold band around her head and the other had her hair bound in ratty coils. Zoar lagged behind the group, nervously rubbing his hands.

W’soran and Melkhior strode swiftly towards them, and it wasn’t until they got closer that W’soran realised that there were dead men in the cavern, and not ones who had been raised by his magics. These were different. They were old things, steeped in death, and heavily armoured. Great bat-winged helms covered their skulls and coats of rusty mail hung from their mummified frames. Ancient cuirasses, embossed with new symbols, covered their torsos. Each carried a heavy shield and had a blade belted at their waist. The dead men examined the newcomers with glowing eyes and W’soran bristled. ‘That witch,’ he spat.

The dead men were wights. Though they resembled skeletons, the wights were as far beyond those pale remnants as vampires were beyond men. There were minds within those brown, root-encrusted skulls, albeit minds warped and shredded by dark magic. It took more skill than he had thought Neferata possessed to bring such creatures back from the grave.

‘Morath’s doing,’ Melkhior snarled as his hand flew to the hilt of his sword. The wights reacted instantly. Bronze swords gone green with age sprang from rotted sheaths and the long-dead warriors stepped forward with deadly intent. W’soran raised his hands, ready to unleash a fatal spell.

‘Stop,’ Vorag bellowed, throwing up his hands, his face mottled with fury. ‘If a spell leaves your withered lips, W’soran, I will rip out your scrawny throat.’

Reluctantly, W’soran lowered his hands. Melkhior had already released his sword and stepped back. Zoar hurried over to them, gnawing his lip. ‘I wanted to warn you master, but-’

‘Never mind,’ W’soran snapped. Stregga grinned insouciantly at him, and the two new vampires giggled.

‘Frightened, were you, old monster?’ Stregga said.

‘Simply surprised; Neferata was never what you’d call bright. I thought even the rudiments of the art of death were beyond her,’ W’soran said, pulling his cloak and his dignity about him. It was a childish response, but it had the desired effect. The newcomers hissed like angry cats. Stregga, more used to W’soran’s insults, merely frowned. W’soran looked at Vorag. ‘I was not invited.’

‘No, you weren’t,’ Vorag said. The Strigoi smiled slightly — a dangerous expression. Vorag only smiled when he was killing something, or preparing to kill something. ‘I am capable of speaking without you at my elbow, sorcerer.’ The gathered Strigoi sniggered and laughed. All except Sanzak, who remained silent, W’soran noted. ‘Or have you at last come to tell me that my war-engines are ready to take the field?’

W’soran paused. Vorag had been growing increasingly impatient in regards to the war machines. He wanted to take to the field, now that he had a citadel and a growing army. Exactly what lands he intended to claim in these barren mountains, he’d never said. Their army was, as yet, too small to confront Ushoran’s forces. Unless…

‘What word, Lord Vorag?’ W’soran asked, smoothly changing the subject. ‘What news do our guests bring?’

‘Neferata lives, old monster. And she has conquered,’ one of the newcomers said. ‘Khemalla and I have come to bring word — Lahmia lives again.’

‘And what would you know of Lahmia, little creature?’ W’soran asked. ‘What would you know of its grandeur, of its glory? What would you know of anything pertaining to the Great Land?’ He snorted. ‘Or has Neferata been filling your heads with stories?’

‘Watch your tone,’ the Arabyan, Khemalla, said as her dark eyes flashed. ‘Layla speaks the truth — Lahmia lives. And it stands against Mourkain, and the usurper, Ushoran.’

‘Funny how he wasn’t a usurper until he made Neferata bow,’ Melkhior murmured.

Khemalla snarled, and her sword was in her hand in an eye-blink. Melkhior drew his blade in the nick of time. Steel rang on steel and Khemalla spun about Melkhior. Her blade lashed out, nearly drawing blood. But W’soran intervened, grabbing her wrist with a speed that shocked all of those present, and slung her to the ground.

‘Insulted and attacked as well,’ W’soran snarled. He glared at Vorag. ‘Has my time here come to an end, Bloodytooth? Should I and my followers leave you to your dreams of empire and wandering doxies?’

Vorag swept back the edge of his cloak. ‘And you think I would simply let you leave? No, I require your aid, necromancer. I need your magics. But perhaps you don’t require all of your limbs, eh?’ The Strigoi hunched forward, spreading talon-tipped fingers.

W’soran knew he wasn’t bluffing. He also knew that he could likely dispatch the Strigoi with little difficulty. But dispatching the others at the same time might have been a tad too tricky. So, instead of responding, he merely met Vorag’s gaze and held it just long enough. Then he looked away and stepped back, hands lowered.

Vorag glared at him for a moment longer, and then grunted, satisfied. ‘Neferata sends word that Ushoran’s attentions are on her now. Abhorash has been recalled to Mourkain,’ he said.

W’soran shrugged and said, ‘And?’

‘And, it is an opportunity,’ Stregga said. ‘One we have been waiting for, the opportunity to put the true heir on Kadon’s throne.’ She gestured to Vorag, whose grin widened. ‘In his veins runs the blood of Kadon and Strigu, the first hetman of Strigos, and in his hands, the empire will prosper, even as it rots on the vine with Ushoran.’

‘And what of Gashnag or the other nobles who stand at Ushoran’s side?’ W’soran asked. ‘They might have something to say about that, especially given that Strigu’s blood runs in their veins as well.’ He raised a hand to forestall a rebuttal. ‘No, no, I’m in favour of overthrowing Ushoran, of course. I simply dislike these games of semantics your mistress insists on playing.’

‘And here I thought scholars liked words,’ Stregga said.

‘We prefer truth,’ W’soran said. ‘Better the truth of the blade than the lie of the sheath. Ahtep of Mahrak said that, in his scroll, Higher Truths. I have a copy, if you wish to read it? No?’ He looked at Vorag. ‘What does she want, Vorag?’

‘Lord Vorag,’ Vorag rumbled.

‘What does she want, Lord Vorag,’ W’soran said.

‘For us to invade Strigos’s eastern territories,’ Sanzak said, speaking up for the first time. The scar-faced Strigoi fiddled with his scalp lock, his ugly face grave. ‘A task which we have neither the resources nor the time to accomplish properly, not if Ushoran intends to pitch Abhorash and the northern Tekes — the warrior lodges — against the Silver Pinnacle. Which he will do unless he’s gone addle-brained,’ he said. He looked at W’soran. ‘Has he?’

‘No, more’s the pity,’ W’soran said, sucking on a fang. ‘Mad, yes, but stupid… no.’

‘What about the engines you promised me?’ Vorag asked. ‘With those, we could devastate the eastern marches and even the vaunted Red Dragon himself will not be able to stand against us!’

W’soran fought a smirk as he caught the bitterness and scorn in Vorag’s words. The enmity between Abhorash and Vorag had begun even before he’d arrived in Mourkain, and it lasted to this very day. Vorag had been the pre-eminent champion of the nascent empire and Ushoran’s sword arm, until the Champion of Lahmia had arrived, with his small band of savage killers. Ushoran was no fool. He’d put Abhorash in charge of as much of the army as he could get away with, and more since, and Abhorash had created a martial engine more deadly than anything that had marched across Nehekhara in Settra’s time. The champion had a gift for war and for making men into warriors. He’d built Ushoran a juggernaut of an army and then used that juggernaut to pave an empire.

When it came to military matters, Abhorash was the next-best thing to a god. It was in every other endeavour that he failed miserably, and always had. W’soran still remembered the grim champion, dogging Lamashizzar in times long past, as hungry for the secrets of immortality as the rest of them, himself included. And when Neferata had usurped those secrets and made them into something infinitely more terrible, Abhorash had bared his throat as quickly as the rest of them.

Just why he’d done it, what he’d wanted out of it, W’soran still didn’t know. For the fools like Ankhat or Ushoran, immortality was an end in and of itself. For Neferata it was simply her due. For himself, the power that came with immortality had been his goal. But for Abhorash, what?

Even as he thought of the champion, he said, ‘The engines are not ready. Not yet.’

‘You have had almost two years, sorcerer,’ Vorag growled.

‘I need more abn-i-khat,’ W’soran said. ‘Those war machines require inordinate amounts of the wyrdstone to function, and that means I need more than I have.’

‘And where do you suggest we get that stone? Perhaps we should crawl down into the skaven burrows and borrow a bushel or two?’ Stregga said.

‘No.’ W’soran smiled. ‘We take Nagashizzar.’