He coughed, trying to dredge up a scream, but all that escaped his mouth was an explosion of boiling gas. He felt like a fire-pit overstuffed with kindling, and the very air wavered about him as a vile heat radiated from his scrawny form. He clutched his sides, fearing that the surging energies that roiled in his gut would tear him apart.
The world pressed in on him, and for a moment, he could see everything, every part of the mountain, every battle taking place from its roots to its tip, including those that had yet to take place and those that never would. He saw the heaving veins of raw magic that threaded through the air around him and the frothing abominations that they emanated from, and he knew that they saw him as well. He saw faces as wide across as oceans and full to bursting with such hideous malignancy that even his sour, stunted soul quavered at the atrocities promised in the thinnest of smiles or the briefest flicker of an eye. For a moment, his sanity trembled on the edge of that vast, crumbling precipice.
Then, the rocks echoed with the sounds of insects scrabbling. For a moment, he thought that he had somehow inadvertently summoned his scarabs once more, before he realised that they were not his, for these, rather than being pale phantoms, were as black as Usirian’s pit. Their shells swallowed light and even his inhuman gaze could not fully discern them. They were equal parts smoke, filth and insect and they spun about him in a wild dance.
The voice, when it came, seemed to thrum through him, riding the fires of the abn-i-khat into the very recesses of his soul. I SEE YOU, it seemed to say. I SEE YOU, MY SERVANT, MY MOST FAITHFUL SON.
He watched in horror as the skittering insects flowed over one another, forming the crude approximation of a great face at his feet. It was Ushoran’s face, and yet not. Another face looked through Ushoran’s — a hateful, terrible face that seemed at once pleased and angered.
‘No,’ W’soran said, covering his face. ‘No, not yet! Not yet!’ His former bravado was gone, stripped away in a moment of uncomprehending terror. He was trapped, sealed in rock with the King of Nightmares and beyond him, the Court of Chaos, his mind and soul open for the flaying. He howled and gibbered, flailing at the faces that leered at him, promising torments of exquisite intricacy.
The voice did not respond to his maddened screams. When he finally lowered his hands, the scarabs were gone, as if they had never been. The only sound, in the cramped confines of the space, was Layla’s hoarse, croaking laughter. ‘You — you’re… mad,’ she wheezed. ‘K-killing you would be a mercy…’
W’soran shrieked and threw out a hand. Black energy burst from his crooked fingers and struck the trapped and cackling Lahmian, washing over her face and boiling the flesh from her head. Her screams ended abruptly. Only a blackened skull remained. Panting, W’soran turned and raised his hands. The tumbled rocks turned to slag as he gestured.
Even as he stepped into the newly-made tunnel, he knew that Nagash was watching. He knew, as he strode quickly into the darkness, erasing the stone from his path, that Nagash would always be watching. The shadow of the Undying King would cover his path until he forcibly removed it.
Chewing the shards of abn-i-khat, W’soran lurched onwards, to claim his citadel in fire and blood.
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.