‘Why?’
‘What do you mean “why”,’ W’soran whispered. ‘You know as well as I do what Nagash intends. And it will be beautiful.’ Even as he said it, the doubts, new and old, crowded at the forefront of his mind. Some he had come by himself, in his years in Nagashizzar. While he had once thought of Nagash as a god, in truth, the Undying King was something else. Just what he was, W’soran couldn’t say, but he was no god. He was no invisible master, speaking through oracles and dusty tomes, but a hard, cruel presence. What went on within that blackened skull no one could say, but Nagash at least thought as a man, and an exceedingly petty and spiteful one at that.
Why else would he have brought Alcadizzar before him, to gloat over him as he had done only moments earlier, before beginning his current ministrations? W’soran shook his head. ‘Beautiful,’ he said again. ‘The sands will give birth to generations of the dead… entire dynasties will bow before the Undying King and we will lead them to war against the men of Araby and Ind. We will bring order and peace to this world, Ushoran. And all for the glory of-’
‘Nagash,’ Ushoran said, softly. ‘Just Nagash.’
W’soran looked at him. Alcadizzar screamed again and writhed in Nagash’s unyielding grip as blood poured down his body to drip and collect in the stone runnels set in the floor. Ushoran watched and his eyes were like stones. Whether he was enjoying the king’s agonies or not was impossible to tell. His face might as well have been a mask. ‘Why do you call him the Undying King, when he is no kind of king at all?’ he asked, as if to himself. ‘Just because he wears a crown, that does not make him a king…’
W’soran grunted and glared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.
‘Nothing; it is a shame Neferata is missing this. I’m sure she’d have enjoyed seeing her old pet flayed by inches,’ Ushoran said.
‘Whose fault is that, then?’ W’soran asked quietly. ‘We should have beaten Abhorash and brought them both here in chains. Nagash would have thanked us. Instead, see — he honours Arkhan and those bags of bones. It is we who are his true servants — they are but tools.’
As if he’d heard them from across the throne room, Arkhan turned to look at them. The green glow in his gaze was gloating, and W’soran bristled. Ushoran didn’t react. He ignored Arkhan, and the liche returned the favour. Indeed, save W’soran, few took notice of Ushoran at all, least of all Nagash, though Ushoran had sought to curry favour at every opportunity.
‘Do you truly think she would have been content to serve, W’soran?’ Ushoran asked. He looked at the other vampire. ‘Are you?’
‘I — what about you, Ushoran, are you content?’ W’soran asked, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Neferata would have served. She would have had no choice.’
‘There are always choices,’ Ushoran said, turning back to watch Alcadizzar’s agonies. W’soran frowned and turned as well, and just in time — Alcadizzar gave a bull-bellow of pain and anger and flailed his way free of Nagash’s grip.
Emaciated as he was, broken and weak as he was, Alcadizzar was no coward. He sprang towards Arkhan and the other liches, and tore the black blade from the sheath on Arkhan’s hip even as he gave a desperate shove, knocking the liche back into his fellows. Blade in hand, Alcadizzar spun about and lunged for Nagash.
W’soran intercepted him, catching the downward stroke of the blade on the bracers of his crossed wrists. ‘You,’ Alcadizzar groaned, pallid face twisted in fear and loathing.
‘Me, little prince,’ W’soran said. ‘And this time, your women aren’t here to save your hide.’ He shoved Alcadizzar back, knocking him to the ground. W’soran made to pounce, when he felt the chill clutch of Nagash’s gauntlet on the back of his head. Fingers like iron hooks dug into the thin flesh and he was ripped into the air and flung casually aside, his howl of pain trailing after him.
‘NO! YOU WILL NOT KILL HIM, LITTLE LEECH,’ Nagash said. W’soran landed hard enough to crack the stones of the floor and he felt things break and burst within him. He had felt Nagash’s strength before, but never in such a way. He lay panting as Nagash hefted Alcadizzar once more, after divesting him of his weapon. ‘HE IS WORTH MORE TO ME THAN YOU. HIS BLOOD IS WORTH MORE TO ME THAN THAT OF A THOUSAND OF YOUR KIND.’
‘I simply sought to aid you…’ W’soran wheezed.
‘I HAVE NO NEED OF YOUR AID.’
Nagash turned back to his work. Arkhan scooped up his sword and looked down at W’soran. ‘On your feet, old monster… we’ll soon have an army to lead.’ The liche turned without waiting for a reply. W’soran staggered upright, clutching his healing ribs tightly. He looked around and saw Ushoran, still standing in the lee of one of the great columns that lined the throne room. Before he could say anything, the Lord of Masks turned and faded into the shadows…
The Badlands
(Year -300 Imperial Calendar)
W’soran gave vent to a howl of fury as he caught the arrow mere inches from his head. He snapped it in two and hurled the pieces aside. More arrows sailed through the deeply overcast sky, slicing through the falling snow to pierce the tattered mail of the marching dead that trudged towards the crude, but massive, palisade that blocked the mountain trail. ‘Tear it down,’ he snarled, batting aside another arrow with his scimitar. ‘Leave not one piece standing!’
The pace of the dead quickened as he let his anger fuel the incantation that sprang to his lips, invigorating them. They were almost running now, bones sheathed in frost and bronze moving with inhuman fluidity. The warriors on the palisade — living men, these, and soldiers of Strigos — cried out and redoubled their efforts. The compact horse-bows the Strigoi favoured thrummed as the rate of fire increased, and broad-headed arrows crashed home, knocking skeletons sprawling. The ones that reached the wall set up the heavy scaling ladders they carried. There was no telling how many would make it to the top. The Strigoi were already hurling rocks down on the climbing skeletons, battering them from the ladders.
The palisade, and the small border fort beyond it, had been built in the years following his departure. Ushoran had not been idle. With determined efficiency he had begun fortifying the mountain passes that provided the most direct routes into his empire. Border palisades occupied the most distant points, and further in, larger fortifications watched over the frontiers. This one was one of the smaller ones — the pass it sat astride was a minor gouge in the spine of the mountains, barely fit for a raiding party, much less an invading army. That was why he had chosen it.
W’soran had always favoured the swift, unseen blow over the give and take of regular combat. He knew from Vorag’s newer recruits that Strigos was at war with a number of the larger tribes occupying the north and west, including the Draka and the Fennones. In centuries past, the Strigoi had driven the ancestors of those tribes west and out of the mountains, and there were old grudges aplenty waiting to be settled. The savages cascaded into the mountains, burning and raiding before retreating back to the lowlands. The Strigoi, long used to martial superiority, were finding it curiously difficult to handle tribes they’d long since thought effectively cowed.
W’soran thought he detected Neferata’s pale fingers in that particular pie. She had wormed her way into the good graces of the larger tribes, supporting this chieftain over that one and providing this bit of that to those, and welded them into a web of nonaggression pacts. Too, she had spread the stories of Mourkain’s wealth and decadence, convincing the barbarians that Strigos, far from being a vibrant and dangerous foe, was nothing more than a sick old wolf, ripe for the killing.