Master of Death

Chapter Seven

The City of Bel Aliad

(Year -1152 Imperial Calendar)

‘Where is she, Abhorash?’ W’soran growled. He glared at the former champion of Lahmia, his good eye blazing with fury. Ushoran gripped his arm in a calming gesture, but W’soran shook him off irritably. ‘Where is our beloved queen, eh? I would gaze upon her beauty once more,’ he said bitterly.

‘She is… contained,’ Abhorash said, looking out the chamber’s window, down at the war-torn streets of the City of Spices. Neferata’s desert raiders had been driven back, but only at great cost and the city had suffered in the doing of it. Many had died, and many more had been taken as captives by the retreating raiders. Neferata’s handmaidens too — those who had survived — were still at large, prowling the shadows of the city, pining for their imprisoned mistress.

That was the reason Abhorash’s Hand was absent. The four killers were leading the hunt for Neferata’s followers, though, given their proclivities, likely not very seriously. Ushoran had offered to aid them, but Abhorash had turned him down flatly. W’soran suspected that the champion was less than pleased to see them. Then, when had the champion ever been happy to see them? Even in better times, now long dust, Abhorash had been an aloof one.

‘Then the weapon we procured for you was satisfactory?’ Ushoran said, stepping forward. He wore his bland-faced human seeming. It had taken Ushoran some months to gain possession of the sword that Abhorash’s factotum had used to disable Neferata. It had belonged to an eastern war-chief of singularly vicious disposition. The tribe had come west, raiding and burning as they crossed the Badlands. Nagash, unwilling to ignore such an affront to his burgeoning empire, had sent W’soran and Ushoran to deal with the flea-bitten marauders.

In a single night of blood-soaked murder, the two vampires had wiped out Karadok the Conqueror and his pathetic tribe of daemon worshippers. The howling blade had been wrenched from Karadok’s grip by Ushoran, even as the vampire throttled its former wielder. W’soran had driven the remnants of the tribe into the darkness of the Badlands with a barrage of sorcery, and set stalking hounds crafted from the skeletons of desert jackals wrapped in the stitched skins of orcs and men on their trail. It had been an amusing diversion from his duties.

W’soran had, at first, thought that the blade was intended as a trophy for Nagash — Ushoran was forever currying favour with the Undying King. Instead, the other vampire had kept and concealed the weapon, eventually delivering it to Abhorash, who had in turn gifted it to the young nobleman, Khaled al Muntasir. True to form, Abhorash had refused to strike directly at Neferata, until forced to by circumstance.

‘For the most part,’ Abhorash said. ‘I was forced to intervene, in the end. Khaled is a strong warrior, but too easily distracted by a pretty face or an unexpected situation. He thought the blade made him invincible, and he was unprepared for Neferata’s strength.’

‘Something we’ve all experienced from time to time,’ Ushoran said, somewhat ruefully. W’soran reached beneath his robes and rubbed the ancient scar on his breast unconsciously.

Abhorash’s smile was tepid. ‘Some of us more deservedly than others,’ he said.

‘Enough of this… where is she?’ W’soran demanded, stung. Abhorash’s supercilious, self-righteous pose grated on his nerves. Soon, Nehekhara would fall, and Alcadizzar would bend knee to his betters once more. Then, the Great Work would begin in earnest. ‘I would have her with us, for our reunion with the puppet-prince of Rasetra. I think she would… appreciate it.’

‘No,’ Abhorash said, not turning from the window.

‘Excuse me?’ W’soran said.

‘I said no, priest,’ Abhorash said. He turned towards them, his palm resting on the pommel of his blade. It bore neither enchantment nor curse, but all the same, in that moment, it was the most terrifying weapon in the world. W’soran silently cursed himself for that flush of fear. It was Abhorash who should fear. It was Abhorash whose existence could be ended with the flick of a finger, or the whisper of an incantation.

But Abhorash was not afraid. Abhorash was too stupid, and too proud, to be afraid. He looked down his nose at them, like a lord examining peasants, and W’soran bristled. Ushoran remained as calm as ever, though W’soran felt him tense, ever so slightly, which made him feel better. Ushoran was too placid, too calm. It was no wonder that Nagash barely acknowledged his existence.

‘Why?’ Ushoran asked, speaking up before W’soran could.

‘She is contained. It is enough. I will not surrender her to slavery or death,’ Abhorash said.

‘Those are her only options, Abhorash,’ Ushoran said, stepping forward. ‘Why are you protecting her? She will not appreciate it.’

‘And she should not. She is a queen. It is my duty to protect her, while she lives. I could not protect her from herself, but I can protect her from you,’ he growled. ‘You will not turn her over to the Usurper.’

‘And if we insist?’ W’soran asked. Power crackled between his hooked fingers. He was almost happy that it had come to this. He had waited for years to match himself against the brute.

‘Don’t,’ Abhorash said softly.

W’soran hissed and flung out his hands. He spat an incantation, and Abhorash reeled as he groped for his blade. W’soran knew, on some level, that this was a mistake. Attacking a killer like Abhorash was tantamount to suicide, a small part of him screamed. But another, larger part of him was determined to rip the look of mockery from Abhorash’s face. The champion had never feared him, never respected him. Well, he would respect him now.

Obsidian-hued lightning curled from W’soran’s fingers, stretching towards Abhorash. The champion jerked like a marionette, but refused to fall. A snarl rippled across his features as he staggered forward, his blade springing from his sheath. W’soran backed away, goggling as Abhorash pressed towards him. Steam rose from his rapidly blistering skin, but Abhorash refused to retreat. The tip of his sword closed the gap.

W’soran gave a gasp of relief as Ushoran crashed into Abhorash’s back. Ushoran moved like lightning, coiling about the warrior. His human face had bled away, revealing the beast beneath. Talons that could puncture armour and bone with ease sank into the champion’s shoulders, and his muzzle dipped towards Abhorash’s throat.

W’soran’s relief was short-lived, however. Abhorash roared, grabbed Ushoran’s muzzle with his free hand, tore the Lord of Masks from his back and hurled him into W’soran, knocking them both sprawling. Abhorash leapt towards them, blade raised. Only Ushoran’s quick recovery saved them, and he dragged W’soran aside as the blade came down, cracking the floor.

The three vampires faced one another silently, as the dust settled. Abhorash smiled tightly at them. ‘If you run, I will not kill you,’ he said.

‘The day you kill me, warrior, is the day I deserve to die,’ W’soran spat as he scrambled to his feet, Ushoran at his side. ‘I’ll flay the flesh from your treacherous bones!’

‘No,’ Ushoran said, forcing W’soran’s hand down. ‘No. We are finished here.’

‘What?’ W’soran barked, looking askance at his ally.

‘We are done,’ Ushoran said, looking at him. ‘She is contained. That is enough.’

‘But-’

‘I only attacked him to save your miserable hide, W’soran, so shut up and kindly allow me to do so,’ Ushoran hissed, jerking him away. He turned to Abhorash. ‘We will go, champion. But you have made enemies this day, when you could easily have had allies.’

‘I think I’ll live,’ Abhorash said. The sneer in his words rattled in W’soran’s head as they made their way from his palace…

Crookback Mountain

(Year -320 Imperial Calendar)

The skaven squealed as Vorag bit down on its head. His powerful jaws cracked the creature’s skull and the helmet that supposedly protected it. The Bloodytooth tossed the twitching body aside, his jaws and chest covered in dark blood. He roared, and the line of skaven flinched back as one. He wore neither armour nor furs, and his flesh was corpse-grey and pulled taut over inhuman muscle.

It had been a year since Vorag had lost his woman, and in that year, he had scoured the skaven from the mountain, from crag to canyon, from peak to root, butchering them in his rage. Now, the skaven defended their deepest warren — the last warren of Crookback Mountain — as Vorag and his snarling Strigoi made to fall upon them.

W’soran watched from within his bodyguard of hulking, scar-covered crypt horrors as Vorag slung another skaven into the air with a backhanded swipe. The line of black-furred beasts was crumbling beneath the relentless assault of the Strigoi and the slavering ghouls that bounded at their side. W’soran watched and chuckled. He rubbed his hands together, thinking of what secrets might be housed in the warren. He felt certain that it would contain breeding pens, at the very least.

Still chuckling, he extended a hand and unleashed a sorcerous blast at the shrieking wolf-rat that lunged at him. Hundreds of the berserk quadrupeds had been released as the Strigoi pressed their assault on the remaining tunnels — a last-ditch defence. They attacked both sides in their fierce hunger, however, and as many skaven as corpses had fallen to their bestial appetite.

More bounded towards the knot of mammoth ghouls, who growled warningly and clutched their great hammers and clubs more tightly in anticipation. As always, their pointed, ape-like heads had been sealed inside bronze cage-helms, to lessen their chances of biting their masters, and their bulbous, malformed torsos were protected by crude studded cuirasses of banded bone and leather. One gave a shrill roar and slapped a leaping wolf-rat from the air with its maul. W’soran left them to it, and turned his attentions back to Vorag’s efforts.

The skaven had their own warlords and war-chiefs and it was one such, clad in heavy armour and wielding a sword and a hooked war-pick, that bounded forward to meet Vorag in the centre of the blood-slick cavern, accompanied by its bodyguard. The creature was larger than most of its kind. W’soran wondered whether that was due to blood or simply having access to more food than its followers. It wore a crested helm and back-banners reminiscent of the horsemen of the eastern steppes, and a spiked ball was mounted on the end of its tail. Foam gathered at the corners of its mouth, indicating that it had consumed a number of the strange potions and brews that the ratkin employed to circumvent their instinctive cowardice.

Vorag met it with a howl. He ducked beneath the slash of its cleaver-like blade and gouged canyons in its cuirass with his claws. The creature bounced off him. The war-pick sank into Vorag’s thigh and he roared in pain. Nonetheless, he jerked aside as the tail-ball swung towards his head. He slapped aside the sword and grabbed for the beast. He only managed to snag a handful of its helmet crest and his howl of outrage was audible over the sound of battle.

Finally, he caught the tail-mace in his palm and held tight, ripping the creature from its feet. He swung it up and brought it down, spine-first, against the cavern floor with a shuddering crump. The creature lay, breathing heavily, obviously broken, as Vorag tore the pick from his thigh and sent it slicing down into the skaven warlord’s chest. Crouching over the squealing creature, Vorag shucked it of its armour and flesh, digging open its chest in a bid to extricate its heart. When he’d reached the morsel, he plucked it free and stood, holding it aloft. Then, with the air of a starving man, he shoved it into his mouth and tore it to shreds.

‘He’s lost all sanity,’ Melkhior hissed as the grisly scene played out. His features were hidden within the folds of a heavy hood, to hide the still-healing burns that further marred his unpleasant countenance. He and Zoar had defended Vorag in the skaven’s final assault on the citadel’s central cavern, and had suffered for it. The skaven had unleashed new weapons that vomited wyrdstone-created flames and had, with unerring accuracy, apparently caught both Melkhior and Zoar with them. When W’soran had arrived, at last, to that final battle, he had been greeted by the sight of his ghoul-borne palanquin burning like a merry torch, and his oldest remaining apprentice screaming in his death-throes as he clawed at his burning flesh.

Melkhior had sworn that Zoar had shoved him aside, in a split-second gesture of brotherhood, and been caught full by the blast meant for Melkhior himself. He had sworn it, even though W’soran had not asked, and did not truly care. Zoar had been useful, in his way, but W’soran wouldn’t miss him.

He glanced at his apprentice and said, ‘Perhaps he did love that she-wolf after all.’

‘Vorag has never loved anything,’ Melkhior said.

‘There speaks the voice of experience,’ W’soran said. ‘At any rate, what does it matter? For the price of a witch, we gain a fortress, unthreatened by vermin.’

‘Yes… Vorag’s fortress,’ Melkhior said sourly.

‘In name, perhaps, but in truth, it will be mine,’ W’soran said. ‘Everything falls into place, my son. At last, we are unencumbered by obstacles.’

‘There are still over a hundred skaven between us and that moment, my master,’ Melkhior said hesitantly. ‘What if-’

‘What if nothing,’ W’soran snapped. A wolf-rat lunged between his hulking bodyguards, vile jaws snapping. W’soran plucked the creature out of the air and slowly crushed its throat, enjoying its death-agonies. ‘Everything is going the way it should. Soon, I will be master here and these stones will stink of death, rather than rats.’ He tossed the body aside, nearly hitting Melkhior, who staggered back.

‘And what then, master?’ Melkhior asked, drawing his robes about him as he stepped over the dead beast. ‘Mourkain still stands, and the Silver Pinnacle as well. The immediate obstacles might be dealt with, but we still have enemies…’

‘Yes,’ W’soran said. He reached up to trace the rim of his cuirass. He could feel the heat of his remaining amulets. They called to him, and bitter saliva built at the base of his tongue. He longed to taste the strange fire of the abn-i-khat again, and to feel it burning in his veins, but he resisted the urge. There was no need now, and he refused to fall prey to the addiction that had claimed Nagash. The wyrdstone was a tool, nothing more. It was not his master. He had no master, unloving or otherwise.

Irritated by the sudden flush of need, he shoved past his bodyguards and thrust his gangly arms forward as if stabbing the air. It responded, thickening and curling around his gesturing fingers. He motioned towards the line of skaven and suddenly, the cavern echoed with the moan of spectral winds.

Cold and cacophonous, the air rushed across the dips and gullies of the cavern and washed across the skaven. Even as it did so, strange shapes seemed to gain shape and form within the roll and weft of the wind and they struck, grasping the skaven and tearing at them like phantasmal beasts. Everywhere the wind touched, skaven died, collapsing like grisly puppets that had just had their strings cut. And as they fell, wisps of something rose from their bodies to join the howling wind, adding to the spectral ranks that were now, like some deep-sea tick, freshly infused with blood, fully visible to the horrified eyes of the survivors.

The spectral host spread like the water from an emptied bucket, splashing over more and more of the skaven, ripping whatever vile essence passed for their souls from their bodies and adding them to its own ghostly ranks. Skaven died in droves, toppling in heaps and piles, the ghastly vapour rising from their twitching corpses. W’soran stepped forward, grinning happily. ‘That’s more like it,’ he said. The spirits of the dead swirled about him like leaves caught on the wind, and their moans caressed his ears like the sweetest music.

It was in these moments that he felt as close to peace as he thought he could get. Surrounded by agonised spirits and standing on the corpses of his enemies, he felt whole. He opened his mouth like a viper, inhaling the effluvium of battle and death, drinking it in. It made him feel almost as good as the abn-i-khat, almost as strong. He battened on death the way a leech did on blood.

Then again, he needed blood as well. It was a sour note, ruining his enjoyment of the moment. The need his kind had for blood was a weakness, nothing less. It was a link to detestable life and a hook which bound them to the living. Nagash had understood that. Perhaps that was why he had never fully trusted them, never taken them into his confidences. Vampires were bound to the living, as all predators were bound to their prey. In Nagash’s world, vampires were little better than living men.

The thought irked W’soran. Even now, after all this time, he still felt as if he was being found wanting by his old master. ‘Then, at least I’m still walking around, eh, old skull?’ he muttered. He gestured and more ghosts rose and swirled about him, forming up on him as if he were a general and they, his honour guard. He caught sight of Vorag loping towards him. The other vampire looked angry.

‘How dare you?’ he growled. ‘They were my prey, sorcerer! Their lives were mine!’

‘Is your sorrow not yet glutted, Vorag?’ W’soran asked, meeting the Bloodytooth’s glare through the haze of writhing spirits. ‘Would you toss the corpse of every skaven in this mountain on her savage pyre yourself?’

‘Her pyre will make the sky boil, sorcerer, even if I must feed the mountain itself to the flames,’ Vorag hissed, talons flexing, ‘And I will wash these rocks with the blood of her killers. I will swim in their blood and crush the life from every one, in her name. And you will call me Lord Vorag.’ He snapped his fangs like a maddened dog and took a step forward.

W’soran hesitated, noting that Sanzak and the other Strigoi were watching. Sanzak’s expression was contemplative. The Strigoi had kept himself at a distance since the moment that W’soran had burned his way into the central cavern and carved the heart out of the skaven horde. Sanzak knew what W’soran had done, even if he didn’t know the particulars. But he had kept quiet, which was all that mattered.

W’soran had gone back into the darkness of that collapsed tunnel after the battle was over to ensure that Stregga was truly dead. Ostensibly, he had been leading a rescue party. Vorag had clutched Stregga’s withered form to him and keened for hours, shrieking his sorrow to the unheeding rocks.

Of the other two Lahmians, Khemalla was missing, and likely buried somewhere. Layla, however, provided a moment of unpleasant surprise. Despite the state of her head, despite the damage to her body, the Lahmian yet lived, though only just. Unable to provide her the ending she so thoroughly deserved, W’soran had had her body removed along with that of Stregga. The latter’s corpse lay stiff and still on a bier in Vorag’s chambers; the former was ensconced in a stone box in W’soran’s laboratories, awaiting his further examination. He had never imagined that Neferata’s creatures could prove so durable. A bit of luck, perhaps — he yearned to continue his study of vampiric flesh, and Neferata had unwittingly provided him with the raw materials he needed.

‘Surely one torment is as good as another,’ W’soran said to Vorag carefully, gesturing to the hovering spirits. ‘This way, they can be of some use, at least. And you had no complaints when I did the same, a year ago, and saved your hide from decorating a skaven banner pole.’

Vorag thrust his head through the spirits, sending them fluttering like bats. His eyes bulged wildly and his scalp-lock was undone, leaving his lion-like mane, now turned ice-white, to curl about his head. ‘She was mine, W’soran,’ he hissed. ‘Mine and mine alone, just like these…’ He swept out a talon, indicating the dead skaven. ‘Everything is mine, sorcerer. I am king here, I am master and lord. Or do you doubt that?’

‘If I have given offence, I am sorry, my lord,’ W’soran said, forcing out each word. He wanted nothing more than to burn Vorag’s leering face off, but he needed the Strigoi, as yet. He needed the raw strength that they provided, to wrest an empire from the sour soil of the mountains. And, annoying as he was, he needed Vorag. ‘I merely sought to aid you in your task.’

‘Not for any love of me, I suspect,’ Vorag hissed. He leaned close. W’soran could smell the thick odour of blood and offal wafting from the Strigoi. In the months since Stregga’s death, Vorag had sunk further and further into barbarity. It was as if, in killing his helpmeet, W’soran had inadvertently stripped him of all remaining humanity. The proud frontier lord who had set out from Mourkain, determined to wrest control of Strigos from the man he saw as a usurper, was gone, replaced by something that was all hunger and savagery. ‘I do not claim what loyalty squirms in your rotten heart, old monster. I know traitors. I am a traitor, and I can smell your treachery. Are you growing impatient with my grief, W’soran, or with my presence?’

W’soran did not flinch as the skeletal gargoyle face drew close to his. He had faced worse monsters than this jumped-up brute. Vorag’s claw flickered up, tapping the scar on W’soran’s face, where Nagash’s brand of obedience had once burned. ‘Sanzak says we should go south. He says that there is war there, for me to lose myself in. That we should ignore Neferata’s entreaties for now,’ Vorag murmured. ‘That is easy to do, now that her envoys are gone, eh?’

W’soran met Vorag’s hateful gaze. ‘Have you sent messengers, Lord Vorag, to tell the Queen of Silver Pinnacle about the deaths of her servants?’ he asked, knowing that the other had not. That had not been his doing, and it had surprised him, somewhat. The idea that Vorag might be somewhat more cunning than he had anticipated, and that the Bloodytooth might welcome a moment of respite from Neferata’s web of schemes, had not truly crossed his mind.

Vorag looked away. His shoulders slumped and he gestured lazily. ‘I am weary of slaughter. Send your phantoms into the darkness, sorcerer. Cleanse these vaults of infestation.’

W’soran nodded and turned. The entrance to the warren gaped welcomingly. He could smell the fear of the remaining rats as they huddled within, waiting for the end. He flicked his fingers and the spectral host swept forward, flowing through the entrance and into the tunnels beyond. Every skaven they killed would add to their number until those last tunnels were peopled only by ghosts. Faint screams echoed from within and he smiled.

‘I sometimes wonder which of us is the worse beast,’ Vorag said, from behind him. W’soran glanced at him, frowning. Vorag was examining his talons, watching the play of muscle beneath flesh and the drying blood on the cruel curves of his claws. ‘Which of us enjoys this more, W’soran? I am a warrior, and slaughter is the hymn of war. But you — you bask in it, like a snake sunning itself on a rock.’

‘One simply grows used to such things,’ W’soran said.

‘Ushoran awakened something in me. I know this,’ Vorag said, making a fist. ‘I don’t think you were much changed by Neferata’s bite. I think you have always been what you are.’

W’soran didn’t reply. Vorag laughed. ‘What sort of empire will we build, W’soran?’ He sank into a crouch and hefted a dead skaven. With a grunt, he fastened his mouth to its throat and tore it open, gulping the thickening blood.

‘A better one than I helped Ushoran build,’ W’soran said harshly. ‘A better one than Neferata desires.’ He turned to Vorag. ‘You allowed me to join your rebellious band because I am your best bet for gaining that which you desire.’

And what he desired, what they all desired in some way, though they knew not why, was the crown of Mourkain. Nagash’s crown wrought in iron and fire and made strong with his power. It tugged at them all, every vampire, pulling at something in their blood. Granted, only a handful of them had come to Mourkain, following the black call of the crown. The others had been either too far away or… he growled and shook his head. The idea that a fop like Ankhat could be more strong-willed than he, or even Neferata, was laughable.

He frowned again, feeling the ghosts within the warren twist and writhe on his sorcerous hooks. He was strong enough now to manipulate hundreds, if not thousands of spirits in a similar manner. He felt the tormented spark of each spectre as it sought to numb its pain by swallowing the life of its former companions. The screams from within the last warren rose to a crescendo and he stretched, tasting the ashes of souls on his tongue.

Vorag desired the crown, deep in his brute brain, just as they all did. Only W’soran had recognised it instantly for the poisoned meat that it was. He knew Nagash’s stink and had smelled its foetid odour in every crack and crevice of Mourkain. It was in the soil and water of the place and it tainted the blood of the Strigoi, making them beasts, even as Nagash had corrupted the Yaghur. The crown sought to make them all into beasts of burden.

‘Perhaps I do not want it any more,’ Vorag said, dropping the pitiful remains of the skaven. ‘I saw what the crown did to Ushoran, sorcerer. Can you promise me that it will not do the same to me?’

W’soran paused. Then, ‘Yes. I can rip the secrets from that detestable circlet, given time.’ That was not quite a lie. In time, he could indeed discover the secrets that Nagash had woven into the forging of that crown. He would learn the secrets that had broken Kadon and Ushoran in turn, and make them his. ‘I can make you the master of Mourkain and high hetman of all Strigos, Vorag — emperor of a vastly expanded empire, even. All I need is time.’

‘So you keep saying,’ Vorag growled as he stood. His eyes glittered eerily. ‘Neferata will not be happy.’

‘Neferata will have her own war to keep her occupied. And while she and Ushoran fight over Mourkain, we can take Nagashizzar. Within its bowels lie the tools I need to make you chief of chiefs, Vorag. It sits waiting to be garrisoned by a powerful host — provide that host! Take Nagashizzar! Take the Great Land and Araby beyond it, and create a kingdom to rival Strigos — a fruitful kingdom, and one that will provide you with the strength you need to beard the beast in its lair.’

The warren had fallen silent. Even the echoes had faded. Vorag seemed to deflate. His features became more human, though his eyes remained as black as polished onyx. He tilted his head backwards and inhaled the smell of death emanating from the entrance to the warren. Then, with a faint smile, he looked at W’soran.

‘I am not a fool, sorcerer. I am not a beast. And I would make right what Ushoran — what you all — made wrong. He made me in his image, but I would have more. I would have an empire of men, not monsters.’ He dropped a heavy hand on W’soran’s shoulder. ‘And you will build it for me.’

W’soran smiled. ‘It would be my pleasure.’