Master of Death

Chapter Ten

Marshes of Madness

(Year -1149 Imperial Calendar)

The dead had pursued them for days.

Relentless and untiring, the soldiers of the Great Land marched through the marshes, ever on their trail. For two years, the servants of the newly awakened Tomb Kings had hunted the remaining followers of Nagash from one end of the Great Land to the other. Some, like Arkhan, had fled west, across the burning sands to Khemri, in an attempt to carve out a kingdom for themselves. Others, like Mahtep, had gone south, hunting safety in the distant jungles.

W’soran himself, after losing control of Nagashizzar to that wretched liche Arkhan, had thought to seek sanctuary in Araby, but he had been driven back by the overwhelming armies of the newly-awakened dead. The crypt legions of Numas had shattered his small army and scattered his ghoulish retainers, leaving he and his few remaining acolytes stranded in enemy territory. Now, they made their way to the shores of the Great Ocean, where he hoped to procure a vessel of some kind and kick the dust of Nehekhara from his heels.

He cursed for the fifth time in as many minutes as his keen hearing caught the clatter of brown bones moving through the sharp-bladed marsh grass. He pulled his damp robes tight and kept moving. Zoar and his remaining apprentices hurried to keep up. ‘Hurry, fools,’ he spat. ‘We need to find high ground.’

The apprentices were moving more slowly than he would have liked, burdened as they were by grimoires, scrolls and baskets of abn-i-khat. He’d taken everything he could from Nagashizzar — he’d picked the bones of the fortress, snatching anything that looked like it might be useful. There was no sense leaving any of it to the Undying King’s other servants, worthless lot of bone-bags that they were, especially Arkhan.

Unfortunately, Arkhan had interrupted him before he could complete the rituals that would have given him complete control of Nagashizzar. It had been all he could do to get away. He’d built a small army from the dead that littered the black shores of the Sour Sea and set off to carve a path through the Great Land to Araby. If he could have made it to Bel Aliad, he had no doubt that he could have made himself king, whether Abhorash opposed him or not…

Bones rattled and then a skeletal steed, adorned in golden barding, galloped through the murky waters of the marsh, a mummified king on its back. More skeletal riders joined the first. W’soran’s apprentices scattered in panic, dropping their burdens in the process. W’soran himself, shaken from his reverie, nearly lost his head to the king’s khopesh. He sank into the murky waters of the marsh as the horsemen charged past, seeking a moment’s shelter.

Zoar and the others shrieked incantations as their pursuers sought to separate them and ride them down. Ancient spears dipped, and the vampire closest to Zoar screamed piteously as he was hoisted into the air to dangle helplessly, a spear in his guts. Another was pierced from three different directions, and torn apart by the momentum of the skeletal horseman.

Zoar fared better, spitting destructive magics. A horseman exploded into dust and fragments and another was consumed in black fire. Another acolyte had forgone magic in favour of the bronze-headed barrow-axe he carried, and he swung, shattering a horse skull with vampiric strength. He fell a moment later, as a spear-point punctured the back of his head and exploded out from between his gaping jaws. The rider lifted the spear, dragging the vampire into the air, where more spears soon sought his vitals.

In the two years since their first clash, the dead of the Great Land had learned the ways of dispatching their blood-drinking foes. Invariably, they sought to pierce the heart or remove the head, even if it cost them a hundred dead men to bring down one vampire.

W’soran recognised the leader of the horsemen easily enough — King Ptar of Numas had been hunting them since that fateful day W’soran had run afoul of his legions. To say that the newly-awakened kings of the Great Land were not happy about their resurrection would be an understatement. ‘Eater of filth,’ Ptar roared. His voice was a crackling rasp that nonetheless carried easily. ‘Sneak-thief of eternity,’ he continued, urging his mount around. ‘Your head is mine!’

W’soran rose from the water, fangs exposed. ‘Only if you can take it,’ he snarled, thrusting out a hand. A sorcerous bolt shattered the rider closest to Ptar, disintegrating both horseman and horse. Ptar rode on regardless, khopesh whistling through the air on a curved arc towards W’soran’s neck. He twisted to the side and avoided the blade but not the horse. It struck him, and he was dragged beneath its hooves. Pain exploded through him as he was stomped into the muck. Foul water flooded his mouth and stung his good eye as he flailed.

His fingers touched long-buried bone. A ghost of a memory spiked through him — of the marsh-tribes that Nagash had butchered upon arrival. Thousands of corpses littered these marshes, it was said. Black sorcery boiled from him in speeding tendrils, seeking the closest of those corpses. Even that small effort exhausted him — it had been months since he had tasted blood, and he was already fatigued.

As Ptar galloped past him, W’soran was hauled up by the momentum of the king’s charge. He rose again from the water, spitting blood, but not alone. Waterlogged corpses, crudely preserved by the murk of the marshes, rose and reached for his fleshless attackers. As the horsemen reeled, surprised by the sudden onslaught from below, W’soran scrambled away, clutching his chest. The horse’s hooves had shattered his ribs and one of his legs wasn’t working. He would heal, but not in time. Nonetheless, he scrambled for the sanctuary of the marshes, hoping to escape Ptar while the latter was distracted.

That hope dwindled as a spear slid through his shoulder, knocking him to one knee. Another spear dug for his side, and grated across his ribs. With a howl, W’soran grabbed the first and broke it, freeing himself. He grabbed the second in both hands as he was shoved sideways by its wielder.

‘Pin him, my warriors! Pierce his heart and chain him! We shall deliver him to Settra so that the King of Kings and Lord of Lords might punish him for his effrontery!’ Ptar roared, jerking on the gilded reins of his mount.

Panic flared in W’soran’s withered heart, and he thrashed like an animal. More spears dipped towards him, more than he could avoid. He screamed in rage.

Then, without warning, something massive and leather-winged fell upon the closest horseman and crushed him in his saddle. The great bat shrieked and darted towards another of the skeletal riders. And not alone — more bats, dozens, perhaps hundreds, pierced the murky sky of the marshes and descended like living arrows, battering riders from their saddles and biting at those who refused to fall. Ptar cursed and flailed at the trio of bats that clung to him like hairy barnacles, their needle teeth tearing at his mummified flesh.

‘What are you waiting for, old monster?’ a voice called out from somewhere in the depths of the marsh. Ushoran’s voice, W’soran realised, belatedly. ‘Get up and run!’ the Lord of Masks roared…

The Worlds Edge Mountains

(Year -285 Imperial Calendar)

Men and women screamed as they were herded into the wheeled cages by skeletal overseers. Behind them, a walled village burned and its former defenders, mutilated and blank-eyed, helped their new comrades herd the survivors into the cages. W’soran watched it all with a satisfied air. ‘Excellent,’ he hissed. ‘How many of these detestable little border villages does that make?’

‘Fifteen,’ Ullo growled, his black eyes reflecting the light of the fire. ‘We use more corpse-men to guard the cages than we do to fight.’ For several weeks, W’soran’s forces had ravaged the border. First one legion would strike, and then another and finally a third, smashing a village or border fort to oblivion and then vanishing before the Strigoi could respond in force.

‘Good,’ W’soran purred, fondling his amulets. ‘Just a few more and then we’ll return to the mount for the season.’ He looked up, considering. In a few weeks, the full force of a mountain winter would descend, making travel more difficult than he liked, especially through the high passes. They would retreat back to Crookback Mountain, and wait for the spring thaw. The slaves wouldn’t last long, but they would provide ample raw materials. And while Ushoran was distracted with the tribes that Neferata had stirred up, W’soran could do as he liked. He needed slaves for his mines, food for his acolytes, and materials for his experiments — all of which these pathetic frontier villages provided.

In the five years since he’d visited the Draesca, and in the nearly three decades since Vorag had left for the east, W’soran had begun to build his empire. With Crookback Mountain as the aleph, he had begun to scour the lands to the west and north, gathering human and greenskin slaves by the hundreds and building his armies. The sound of hammers rang in the depths of the mountain, as the forges of the skaven were repurposed by dead hands. He had five tomb-legions at his disposal now, armoured and armed at his command and ready to march beneath his banners. His vampiric commanders, though nominally loyal to Vorag, eagerly followed his orders.

And he had acolytes aplenty these days — outcasts and dark scholars from as far as the republics that clung to the southern reach of the Vaults and the feudal morass of the western peninsula. Arabyans as well, and men from the north, wearing cloaks made from wolf-hide and crow feathers. Dozens of them flocked eastward, as if drawn by a black beacon.

True, some had gone to Mourkain, but others, the wisest of the lot, or at least the most discerning, had continued east until they reached his burgeoning empire. Like called to like — there were men aplenty in the world who desired to learn Usirian’s mathematics — and their blood sang in his veins, binding each of them to his will. A bit of him in each of them, lending them something of his focus and will, making each of them, whether savage Norscan or subtle Arabyan, more than a match for the puling whelps that Morath had inducted into his false cult.

More than just the forges were lit in his mountain fastness; his new students, under Melkhior’s watchful eye, had partitioned off laboratories and libraries for themselves, and brought the watered-down, yet still useful knowledge of their own backwater principalities with them. They had brought scrolls and treatises written by men who had been but motes of possibility when Nagash had dragged the dead of Mahrak to their feet.

And some — a rare, precious few — were older than Khemri. Dark tomes, bound in dawi hair and written on the marble flesh of the asur — the elder race — that had been found in northern temples or places hidden in the empty vastness of the Great Desert. All of which spoke to W’soran’s growing understanding that Nagash was not the first man to wrest control of the stuff of death from the gods. He had simply, with characteristic arrogance, assumed he was.

Of the greater war, between Mourkain and the Silver Pinnacle, he knew only a little — only what news his new followers brought. The Draesca waged haphazard war, attacking and retreating, and they knew little of the ebb and flow of greater events. W’soran himself refused to give open battle to Strigos’s armies, and retreated from them when he could not easily overwhelm them. Occasionally Arpad or Tarhos would grumble, but Ullo restrained them. Ullo understood the strategy. Or he thought he did, at least.

The Strigoi was presumptuous, but W’soran allowed him his presumption. The strongest chains were those a man forged himself. Ullo thought that W’soran intended to snaffle off chunks of Strigos for himself, as his enemies warred on each other; a war of scavengers, picking bones while the great predators roared and fought over the carcass. But that was not his true goal.

What need did he have of an empire? Empires were ephemeral things. No, power was his goal. That and the payment of debts owed him. But to gain power, he needed the resources an empire provided. To beat and break his enemies, he needed a weapon equal to theirs. Granted, his weapon was of simpler construction — the only living beings in his empire were slaves. He had no need of diplomacy or of politesse as Ushoran did. Let him waste his energies and resources on manipulation and military stratagems, while W’soran sat and waited.

He was good at waiting. He had waited twenty years for someone to pull him from his jar. He had waited centuries to discover Nagash’s secrets. He would wait millennia to see his foes kneel at his feet. The thought warmed him, and he turned his attentions back to the hapless Strigoi peasants being herded into the cages. He felt neither pity nor interest in them — then, he never had. For W’soran, his fellow men could be divided into two, often equally despised camps… obstacles and tools. The latter were only such until they invariably, inevitably became the former. They served him, until they had to be disposed of. They could not be trusted, for trust was power and W’soran would suffer no one to have power over him, if he could avoid it. When he couldn’t, his very nature made him squirm and strike like an asp when that power weakened even a fraction. And like an asp, W’soran only knew two solutions to a given problem, despite his wealth of knowledge — either kill the problem or flee from it.

It had always been thus, even in his youth in Mahrak. When he had ascended to the priesthood, he had become acquainted with plenty of tools and obstacles both in his early, puerile attempts to gain the power he so craved through generous application of manipulation and poison. Then Nagash, after usurping the throne of Khemri, had reached out his hand and snuffed the life from Mahrak, and he thought, at last, he had found the path to true power.

Nagash, the Undying King, had reduced every man to the status of a tool. To W’soran, in that moment when the first of the corpses clogging Mahrak’s streets had risen unsteadily to its feet, it had seemed as if the way to true power had, at last, been made clear.

He clutched his amulets and felt the tingle of power in his fingertips. The abn-i-khat whispered to him, and his eyes drifted to the horizon, where the ever-present black blotch of Mourkain’s shadow caressed the stars. ‘Soon,’ he whispered. ‘Soon the only shadow cast over these mountains — over this world — will be mine.’ That was the point of power. To be the strongest was to be the safest. With all of his enemies broken, with all men made over into tools for his will, he could cease striving. He closed his eyes. He could rest. There would be nothing left to fear.

Would Ushoran thank him, he wondered? He liked to think so. He cherished the image. They would all thank him and fear him, as they always should have done. They feared Nagash, but W’soran would prove a greater horror than the Undying King. ‘King,’ he whispered. ‘Pah, I will be emperor- an emperor of blood and a lord of the dead.’

He felt a stirring in the winds of death, and wondered if Ushoran had heard him. He hoped so. He was not afraid, and he wanted the king of Mourkain, and the darkling spirit that whispered to him, to know it. I am not afraid. It is you who should fear me, he thought.

His eyes popped open as Arpad rode up to join them, lashing his mount in his haste. ‘The scouts have sighted a column!’ he shouted as he yanked on his mount’s reins, causing it to rear. ‘They think it’s Abhorash!’

W’soran hissed. Courage faded, replaced by consternation. ‘Impossible. He’s off fighting the Draesca,’ he snapped. He wasn’t ready to face Abhorash yet.

Arpad made a face. ‘From the description, if it’s not the Red Dragon it’s one of his damnable claws, which is almost as bad. Those bastards are tougher than I like,’ he said.

Ullo shook his wedge-shaped head. ‘How far out are they?’

‘A day, maybe two,’ Arpad said. He looked at W’soran. ‘If we leave the prisoners, we can outpace them.’

‘And why would we want to do that, eh?’ W’soran asked, not looking at either Strigoi. He thought quickly, weighing, gauging. ‘This is perfect. Perfect!’ He pounded his saddle with a fist. He looked at Ullo. ‘Tarhos is only four days north of here, seeing to the greenskins that threaten our endeavours. Send riders to him. Have him fall back to rejoin us.’

‘The orcs will follow him,’ Arpad protested. ‘He’ll lead them right down on us!’

‘Exactly,’ W’soran said. He leaned back and stroked his chin. ‘We have been presented with an unparalleled opportunity, my friends, and one we would be foolish to ignore.’

‘What do you mean?’ Ullo asked, looking at him.

‘Whether it’s Abhorash or merely one of his lickspittles, their presence implies that the approaching force is no rag-tag frontier force, but a hardened legion. And it is one that he would not lightly spare.’ He clutched his amulets tightly. ‘And we have the opportunity to destroy it and deal Mourkain a definite blow.’

‘And weaken them in the process,’ Ullo said. He nodded brusquely. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We will draw them in, and distract them, until it’s too late — the urka will crash into them.’ He displayed his mouthful of fangs in a too-wide grin. ‘Even if they win, they’ll be shattered. Excellent, and here I almost believed Melkhior when he asserted that you lacked a warrior’s instinct, W’soran.’ He eyed W’soran, obviously gauging his reaction.

W’soran restrained his first impulse, and then his second. He settled for a grimace. Melkhior was growing ever more vocal in his dissatisfaction with his current lot as castellan of W’soran’s citadel, for all that it was a position of high honour to W’soran’s way of thinking. In truth, he did not enjoy the vagaries of war, though he was self-aware enough to admit that the customary acts of violence required of all warriors scratched a certain itch. But war itself was a tedious affair. One of several reasons he had kept his involvement to a few reputed raids.

Yet, he was looking forward to this. If it was Abhorash who was coming, it would be the sweetest of nectars to draw him into a trap and watch it snap shut about his priggish, unbending neck. To watch the champion of Lahmia die, pulled beneath a filthy green sea, would be a joy second to none. He rubbed his hands together in glee, savouring the anticipation. He wasn’t ready to meet Abhorash in open battle, but he’d happily watch him die, oh yes.

‘Arpad, load up the slaves and take them ahead with your legion. Take my acolytes with you. Dead or alive, I want every slave to reach Crookback Mountain. Ullo and I shall draw Abhorash — or whoever it is — off with the rest and join up with Tarhos. We shall find ground and hold them in battle until the orcs arrive and then, we shall vanish like a morning mist.’

‘And what of our warriors? We may not have time to disengage,’ Ullo said.

W’soran made a dismissive gesture. ‘Our warriors are dead. Once we have drawn the enemy in, there is little need to keep them moving. We can always make more, later. Especially if we return after the battle… I’m sure we will find more replacements than we can effectively use.’

‘And what if they are using the dead as well?’ Ullo asked.

In answer, W’soran looked at Arpad. ‘Well?’

‘Living men, veterans of the northern frontier, by the description,’ he said. ‘They’ve got some sort of red beast’s skin on their standard…’

‘It’s a manticore,’ Ullo said. ‘The Red Lions, they’re Horda’s men. That means it’s likely that honour-obsessed bastard Walak is with them.’ His teeth scraped against one another. His eyes, normally as dead as stones, flashed with something that might have been rage.

‘Bad blood?’ W’soran purred.

Ullo glared at him. ‘That’s none of your concern, sorcerer.’

‘It was just a simple question,’ W’soran said, looking away. Ullo had served on the northern frontier, before he’d left Ushoran’s service. From what little W’soran knew, that leaving had been helped along by an attempted coup of some kind, with Ullo attempting to lead a revolt against the iron authority of Abhorash and his hand, for reasons as yet unknown to any save Ullo himself. W’soran could respect that sort of ambition, and he could not fault Ullo’s courage. If the Strigoi, as a whole, had one saving grace it was their courage. ‘What sort of commander is this Horda?’

‘He is a fool and a plodding one.’

‘And what of Walak?’ W’soran asked. He had never concerned himself with either of the brutal Harkoni who followed Abhorash. That Walak and his brother Lutr had been in Lahmia’s army, he knew, but that was as far as it went. ‘Is he a plod as well?’

Ullo’s expression turned dark. ‘No,’ he hissed. Hatred warred with respect in the Strigoi’s eyes. ‘He’s a devil, just like his master. Worse, maybe… the Dragon holds tight to his honour, even at cost to himself. Walak fights dirty.’ He snapped his teeth, biting off the end of the word. There was a story there, W’soran knew. But not one he cared to inquire after.

‘Handy to know,’ W’soran murmured. He watched the fires that consumed the village for a moment, considering. Then, ‘We shall simply have to make sure that we fight dirtier.’ He looked at the Strigoi. ‘You know what to do, my lords. Time is not on our side. Let us begin.’

Time might not have been on their side, but it was a simple enough matter to make sure the weather was. One of the first incantations that W’soran had learned was a spell to darken the sky and cause the clouds to grow black and angry. Though he was not as sensitive to light as his followers, he saw no reason to endure even that limited discomfort. It didn’t require much effort in any event — winter was stalking down from the mountains on bone-white paws. By the time Tarhos had joined them, the sky was the color of a frost-bitten limb and the clouds were heavy with incipient snows.

It had taken six days for Tarhos to reach them. In that time, Arpad had led the slave wagons south-east, towards the safety of Draesca territory, while W’soran and the others went in the opposite direction. If Abhorash had been with the enemy, W’soran would have worried that he might have bullied the other commander into following Arpad, but Walak, true to Ullo’s assertions, seemed disinclined towards the mock-heroism that Abhorash was unable to avoid indulging in.

What followed were days of running battle. With deft application of his forces, W’soran caught and held the attentions of the enemy’s scouts and outriders. Dead wolves, dragged from icy graves by his craft, lunged through the curtain of falling snow to drag down lone horsemen or to hurl themselves, slavering, their fleshless jaws spread wide, into the packed ranks of marching men. Skeletons squatted beneath snow drifts and rose to the attack amidst their enemy, striking out in all directions. He sacrificed hundreds of the dead to buy mere hours, knowing even as he did it that it would inflame and provoke his pursuers. As Ullo had said, Horda was a beast with a gnaw-bone.

The enemy left a trail of corpses in their wake. W’soran wondered, briefly, at the lack of necromantic magics, and the waste of such wonderful material, but then pushed the thought aside. What business of his was it if his enemies deprived themselves of a useful tool? Abhorash had never approved of sorcery, and it was likely his brood felt the same way.

On the tenth day, they made their stand. The ground was thick with snow, and uneven, broken by rocks, hills and scrub trees. At their back was a vast frozen lake, and the air was redolent with the sounds of grinding, cracking ice and the dull slap of freezing water. W’soran ordered the dead into neat ranks, their backs to the water, ready to meet the enemy’s charge. Then, with Ullo and Tarhos, he retreated to a safe distance to wait.

‘Tell me about the orcs,’ W’soran said, as they waited. He glanced at his acolyte, a Draesca named Merck, who’d been assigned to aid Tarhos. ‘Their numbers, their disposition, anything pertinent to this affair, Merck…’

‘The Red Eyes are a large tribe, master. They came down through the Peak Pass and swept most of the smaller tribes west. They’re heading south, though not in any great hurry,’ Merck said, stroking his ratty beard. His flesh was thick with wrinkles and his eyes were like black pits. Rodent-like fangs left shallow cuts in his thin lips.

W’soran nodded. He’d sent Tarhos to divert the orcs from rampaging into the path of his legions, while he conducted his own raids. He’d assumed they were a local tribe, however, like the Iron Claws.

‘They’ve come farther than I would have thought,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised Abhorash hasn’t… ha.’ He blinked. ‘Oh, oh you old fool, W’soran. Poor old W’soran, your mind has turned to stone!’ He laughed. ‘South, you say? From the Peak Pass, you say, yes?’ He looked at the Strigoi. Tarhos had a blank look on his face, but Ullo-

‘The witch,’ he rasped.

‘Yes! There might be hope for you yet, Ullo. Neferata! She always was good at handling savages. Somehow, she’s diverting them, sending this large tribe directly for us, while funnelling the run-off, the dregs, west into Strigos.’ He pounded a fist into his palm. ‘Two birds with one stone was always Neferata’s preference, greedy girl that she is.’ He could see her plan now, as if she’d laid it out for him herself… an orc Waaagh wasn’t like a normal army. It was more like runoff from a mountain stream, gathering force and strength as it crashed down. The Red Eyes wouldn’t be weakened, if they fought their way across the mountains, into the east. To the contrary, they’d only grow stronger and fiercer.

‘Another splinter in my heart, eh?’ he muttered. ‘Well, let’s hope that the Strigoi can put a dent in them for us, eh?’

They caught sight of the first horsemen a few moments later, galloping through the distant trees. Ullo gave a grunt, attracting W’soran’s attention. ‘They’re here.’

‘Of course they are. They smell blood. We are cornered prey, and our kind finds it hard to resist that,’ W’soran said. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘The hill-tribes call this place the Black Water. They swear there are beasts in the water.’ He turned back, and looked at Tarhos. ‘Where are the orcs?’

‘A few hours out, maybe less, if they get a scent of man-flesh,’ the big Strigoi said, scratching his cheek with his hook. ‘Your sorcery and the weather have kept them hidden, and they’ve been taking advantage of it, the green-skinned animals.’

‘Good,’ W’soran said. ‘When the time comes, you know what to do?’

The two Strigoi looked sullen. Tarhos nodded, but said, ‘I dislike running from a fight.’

‘Then by all means stay and battle on,’ W’soran said, ‘but I intend to run, when the time comes, and this army, once it has done its job, will collapse, so you’ll be fighting alone.’ He grinned. ‘Of course, I’d have thought that that would appeal to brutes like you.’

‘Careful, sorcerer,’ Ullo said, waving down Tarhos’s snarl of anger. ‘You still need us just as much as we need you, if only to keep Vorag happy. You recall Vorag, I trust? Your master and ours, for whom we wage these battles,’ he continued.

W’soran frowned. ‘Was that a threat?’

‘Merely a reminder,’ Ullo said. He looked towards the trees. ‘Tarhos has a point — why should we retreat? Why not crush the orcs as well? With your sorcery, we could have quite the army after a few hours. And end two threats at once.’

‘You have fought orcs, Ullo. Do you think we could crush them? Or do you think we would become bogged down, fighting an ever-growing number of greenskin savages?’ W’soran flung out a hand, indicating the dark peaks that rose around them like monstrous fangs digging for the throat of the sky. ‘There’s a reason the dawi simply close their doors and let the savages wash across their mountains… they are not an army, but a storm. You do not fight a storm — you wait for it to pass. Neferata might have shattered the great Waaagh centuries ago, but the orcs still cling to these crags like limpets. They are growing in strength, and I want that strength directed away from us and towards Mourkain. Let Ushoran shed the blood of his slaves on orc blades. And even if the Red Eyes continue their pursuit, I would rather face them from a position of strength, than in enemy territory.’

‘And what if his necromancers raise an army from them?’ Ullo asked shrewdly. ‘For Ushoran will defeat them. Of that I have no doubt.’

‘And so,’ W’soran shrugged. ‘We have enslaved tribes of the beasts ourselves, and Vorag sends more westward as he tears a bleeding hole in those mountains. And it will take Ushoran years to do so. Even with our help, it took him centuries to do the job the first time. Without us — indeed, with Neferata actively working at cross-purposes — it will take him much, much longer.’

He leaned towards Ullo. The sound of Strigoi horns was carried towards them on the wind, but he ignored them. ‘We are merely buying time, my lords. Every battle we fight, every raid we conduct is to buy us — to buy Vorag — a few more days of grace. We will bleed Strigos white and set it stumbling towards doom, and then, at the last, we will take it!’ His hand snapped out, snatching a tumbling snowflake from the air for emphasis. Tarhos flinched back, as if W’soran’s hand were a striking spider. Ullo merely grunted. He looked back towards the trees.

‘And what of Neferata?’ he asked. Horsemen threaded through the trees, clad in the loose armour and furs of Strigoi horse-archers. There were lancers as well — vojnuk, the Strigoi called them. They were heavily armoured, and their armour was all swooping curves and serrated edges, engraved with scenes of battle and slaughter. Their helms, rather than being the simple conical affairs the Strigoi normally wore, were grotesque things, all bat-winged flanges and gargoyle visors. Their lances were not the thin spears of the Arabyan kontoi, but heavy things, more like iron-banded staves. The vojnuk did not pierce the enemy, they crushed them.

The infantry followed; archers mostly, but a few units of spearmen, carrying large, square shields that could be anchored to the ground to create a makeshift barricade. The Strigoi had long since learned the arts of fighting their more disorganised enemies, whether those enemies were orcs or men. W’soran wondered whether this legion had come east looking for orcs, and merely stumbled upon him. It didn’t matter; he would destroy them regardless. Even better, the Strigoi would think that the orcs had done it.

‘Time and patience,’ he murmured, watching the enemy draw up their lines. ‘Those are weapons you never learned how to use, Ushoran.’ Idly, he played with his amulets. He was tempted to eat one, but there was no need. Not for this. There was no need for a sword when a knife would do.

He looked at Ullo and said, ‘As to Neferata, what of her? She is no threat to us. Merely an annoyance — she is a child, attempting to join the games of her elders. No, Ushoran is the true threat, and it is he that we face here, or his proxies, at any rate.’ He smiled. ‘I’d wager he knew all about the orcs. He was probably hoping to send us fleeing right into them. Instead, we shall slip aside and let our enemies have at each other.’ He sat up in his saddle. ‘Ah, there they are.’

The enemy commanders were easy enough to spot. Horda rode with the horse-archers, his manticore-pelt banner rattling in the snowy breeze. Like most Strigoi nobles, he wore the bare minimum of armour, and no helm. Instead, he wore the tatty hide of a beastman over his head and shoulders, and golden clasps on his muscular arms and wrists.

Walak was more impressive looking. He was as big as W’soran recalled, and plated in the armour of a vojnuk, save that it had been enamelled crimson. His helm was topped by two flaring wings and his visor was crafted in the shape of a snarling face. A crest of black wolf pelt hung from the top of his helm, and a cloak of the same was wrapped about his armoured bulk. He carried no lance, and instead wielded a heavy blade which was sheathed across his saddle, his hand resting on the hilt. There was a stillness to him that put W’soran in mind of Abhorash, though Walak was smaller and thinner than the champion. He was still bigger than any Strigoi.

Ullo snarled at the sight of him, and his grey flesh seemed to ripple with anger. W’soran peered over at him and smirked. ‘Calm yourself, Ullo. I’d hate to lose your counsel to foolishness.’

Ullo snapped his teeth and shook his head, like an animal stung by an insect. ‘I am quite calm, sorcerer. I am merely eager for the fight. It has been too long since our last proper one.’

‘Aye,’ Tarhos rumbled, swiping the air with his hook. Even as he said it, the horns of the enemy split the air. W’soran hunched forward in his saddle. The beginnings of a plan crouched in his mind.

‘It’ll be Walak,’ Ullo said, noting his expression. ‘The vojnuk will charge first, to break our lines. It’s been long enough since Vorag’s exile that they’ve fought your kind many times since, sorcerer. He’ll be looking to take your head.’

The words startled W’soran more than he cared to admit. What if Ullo was correct — what if Walak was looking for him? What if Ushoran were searching for him, even as Neferata had been? What if this wasn’t just a battle, but a hunting expedition? The thought wasn’t a pleasant one. W’soran didn’t like to consider what Ushoran might have planned for him, should he fall into his clutches.

He grunted and pushed the thought aside. ‘Let him come. There is a reason I chose this ground, Ullo, as you will soon see.’

‘I hope so, for your sake, sorcerer, for you will hold the centre, while Tarhos and I take the flanks. If we’re simply keeping them occupied, there’s no reason to hold our horsemen in reserve, eh?’ Ullo grinned and snapped his reins, urging his red-eyed mount forward. The black beast whinnied in annoyance, and pawed the snow with obsidian-hued hooves. The horses the vampires rode had been fed on blood and abn-i-khat, and turned into something else. W’soran wasn’t sure there was a ghoulish equivalent for an animal, though he’d heard tell of herds of man-eating horses on the steppes. His own mount was thankfully quite dead, and as such, not prone to making noise.

Ullo was correct, of course. There was little need for reserves in this battle, though the enemy would suspect desperation in the tactic rather than design. W’soran knew little of military stratagems, but he knew enough to understand that a battle unfolded not all at once, however it might appear, but in stages. Move and counter-move, thrust and counter-thrust, back and forth in a dull little dance; it was less a game here, in these grim mountains, than it had been in the Great Land, but the pattern was the same. There were only so many pieces and only so many moves.

Walak drew his great blade and chopped the air with it. All at once, the ground began to tremble as the armoured lancers began to trot forward, gaining speed. They intended to crash through his lines, crushing and destroying the formations. W’soran smiled thinly. They wanted to make a path… so be it. He was nothing if not accommodating.

Soon the vojnuk were galloping towards his lines, lances lowered, back-banners streaming. Snow fell around them, and at any other time, if he were any other man, W’soran might have felt a stirring at the sight. Instead, contempt filled him. He had felt the same, watching the chariots of the Great Land. Thugs and bullies, thinking power came from their hooves and weapons. But power came from the mind, from within.

‘I will show you power,’ he spat.

The vojnuk drew closer. He could feel their approach in his belly and in his bones. Beside him, Merck cringed, exposing his teeth in a worried snarl. ‘Master…’ he began.

‘Calm yourself, acolyte,’ W’soran said. He could see the faces of individual vojnuk now. He could see Walak’s eyes widen slightly, behind his visor. He had been recognised. Good. W’soran grinned. He and Merck were well out of the line of the charge.

‘Master,’ Merck yowled. The ice behind them cracked and burst, vibrated free by the thunderous charge. W’soran gestured and the dead collapsed, like puppets with their strings cut.

It was a simple enough ploy. He controlled their every action, and the very stuff that held them together. To drop them all at once required no more thought than pulling them to their feet.

The vojnuk charge was unimpeded, the expected impact never came, and men and horses rode on, straight into the Black Water. A hundred men and horses rode onto the cracking ice, their momentum carrying them far past the shallows. They realised their plight quickly, and men began yanking on reins, trying to turn their horses about. Animals squealed as hooves slipped and slid on the ice, and men bellowed and screamed. The riders in front were the first to feel the bite of the Black Water, as the weight of the front ranks caused the ice to snap and snarl and gape. Men and horses plunged into the water into shrieking knots, and W’soran chortled.

W’soran gestured again. The dead stood, even those that had been trampled and broken, and they turned as one, shields locked and spears levelled. The charge was broken; it was no longer a thundering engine of destruction, but simply a scrum of desperate men, trying to reach shore as the ice began to give way beneath them. The dead began to march onto the ice, pushing against the horsemen, forcing them back through sheer weight of numbers.

W’soran laughed and clapped, gleeful. ‘Oh, see, Merck! See how the mighty become the meek at the merest whisper of my power, eh?’ He turned. The battle had begun in earnest. Tarhos and Ullo had engaged Horda’s horse-archers and the bulwark of infantry. Tarhos’s skeletal riders crashed through the infantry line, heedless of casualties and blind to even the most rudimentary tactics. There was a certain blunt beauty to such an attack, but if their goal had been victory rather than simple distraction, it would have failed.

Ullo had engaged his enemy head-on as well, if with more surgical precision. Like the shark he resembled, the Strigoi had gone for the weak spot, closing swiftly and removing the horse-archers’ advantage. Now, amidst the swirling melee, Ullo and Horda traded heavy blows with superhuman energy. The two vampires were evenly matched.

‘Raise the dead as they fall, Merck,’ W’soran said, as he turned back to his apprentice. ‘We must keep our guests occupied, until-’

His words were lost in Merck’s scream. The vampire was lifted from his saddle by the sword jutting from his chest, and sent hurtling towards the Black Water like a shrieking comet. Walak, covered in water and frost, his armour battered, growled and urged his mount forward towards W’soran. ‘Sorcerer,’ Walak roared. ‘I shall take your head back to the Captain, and lay it at his feet!’

The vampire had hacked his way through the dead. His horse was on its last legs, bleeding from a hundred wounds, its eyes rolling. Walak himself didn’t look much better, but he seemed determined. He swept his blade out, aiming to cleave W’soran’s head from his shoulders. W’soran leapt lightly from his saddle, avoiding the blow. He drew his scimitar as he landed and cut the legs out from under his opponent’s mount. The animal tumbled with a squeal and Walak with it. But he rolled quickly to his feet and renewed his attack.

They traded blows for a moment. W’soran was impressed by the other vampire’s strength. His was still the greater, but Walak was a trained warrior, and deadly. W’soran had learned much of swordplay in his centuries, but Walak had been trained by the greatest warrior to ever tread the world’s sands. They spun about, their blades weaving a wall of steel between them.

They broke apart a moment later. On the Black Water, the surviving vojnuk had reached the shore. They battered through the dead with all the fury of men determined to survive. There weren’t many left, but enough to cause trouble.

Then, from the north, came the unlovely sound of orc drums and the raucous wailing of their horns. W’soran hissed in pleasure and looked at Walak, who circled him warily. ‘Do you hear that?’ he asked.

‘I hear,’ Walak growled. ‘It makes no difference, old man. I will take you back to Mourkain, even if I must wade through the blood of every greenskin in these mountains.’

‘Just a moment ago, you intended to take my head,’ W’soran spat. It seemed his earlier suspicions had been correct. They had come for him. That boded ill. ‘What purpose does your Captain — does Abhorash have for an old man, eh? What need has the Great Dragon for a humble priest such as myself?’

‘He doesn’t,’ Walak said. He sprang forward. W’soran caught his blow and heaved him back. Walak slid to a stop several feet away, snow billowing around his legs. Beneath their feet, the snow shifted and W’soran could feel the approach of the orcs. Walak’s sword came around, forcing W’soran back a step. ‘But Ushoran does…’ Walak said.

A moment of fear flared through him. Was it truly Ushoran who required him… or Nagash? And if the one, and not the other, what did it mean? He opened his mouth, ready to attempt to draw the answers from Walak.

‘Walak,’ a voice roared. Incensed by the interruption, W’soran saw Ullo galloping towards them.

Walak whirled and was knocked sprawling by the base of the standard that smashed into his helm. Ullo rode past, hefting the enemy banner like a spear. The Strigoi howled and shook it. ‘Take my legion from me, will you?’ he snarled, launching himself from his saddle to bring the standard crashing down on his dazed opponent. ‘They were mine! The glory was mine!’

He roared, slapping Walak from his feet hard enough to splinter his makeshift club. With a growl, he hurled aside the shattered standard and leapt upon Walak, his talons sinking into the other vampire’s much-abused helm. In his frenzy, he tore the helm from Walak’s head and smashed the vampire to the ground. For a moment, W’soran thought Ullo would kill the Harkoni. Then Walak’s hand flashed and Ullo reeled, pawing at the heavy Rasetran-style dagger jutting from his chest.

Walak staggered to his feet and retrieved his sword. He was grinning through the mask of blood that obscured his features. ‘You’re a good fighter, Ullo, but you’re a piss-poor general. You always have been. A good fighter, though. I’m almost sorry to take your fangs…’ He raised his blade. W’soran hesitated. No one could blame him, if Ullo fell here. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t contemplated the same…

Tarhos galloped past, hunched over his mount’s neck. ‘They’re here,’ he shouted. ‘The orcs are here!’

W’soran looked past him and saw that the Strigoi wasn’t wrong. The orcs had arrived, in their numberless ranks. Snorting boars, their bristles lank with rime and filth, burst from the scraggly tree-line and made a beeline for the closest of the enemy. Behind them came the rest of the horde, panting with exertion and roaring out a multitude of nonsensical challenges. The trees burst and shattered as the ponderous shape of a giant forced its way through them. The mammoth creature uprooted a heavy rock and hurled it at the distant Strigoi. Men and horses were crushed beneath the rock and the giant gave a thunderous bellow of satisfaction.

Walak cursed and his blade dipped. W’soran made his decision. He lunged. His scimitar crashed down on Walak’s pauldron, rocking the warrior. He staggered and W’soran darted past him, hauling Ullo to his feet as he went. Then, half-dragging Ullo, he made for the latter’s mount. Flinging the Strigoi across the saddle, he climbed up and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, setting it in pursuit of Tarhos. Walak made no effort to pursue. The first of the boar riders had reached the remaining vojnuk, and battle commenced. W’soran grinned as, behind him, men and orcs died.

Regardless of who triumphed here, the ultimate victory would be his.

It was simply a matter of time.