‘There is a saying… something about eggs and breaking them,’ W’soran said. ‘It is of no matter. He is mine, hag. The Draesca are mine. I can do as I wish with them. You are not welcome here.’
‘We do not require your welcome or your blessing, old monster,’ one of the other Lahmians hissed, exposing her fangs. ‘We require only your scalp, preferably wet.’
‘Assassins, then,’ W’soran said mildly. ‘How boring — I had thought better of Neferata. I had thought she might have more pressing affairs, what with Vorag’s absence from the field.’ He grinned beneath his mask. ‘How is that working out for her, by the way? As I recall, she was always something of a poor general.’
The Lahmian who’d just spoken hissed and struck, bounding towards him with impressive speed. Iona threw out a hand and shouted, ‘Varna — no!’
Varna’s claws tore through W’soran’s robes as he spun away from her. The third Lahmian leapt for him then, and her blow tore the mask from his face. He slapped her aside with a snarl. Varna’s claws tore across his back and he staggered.
From outside the lodge-house came the screams of men and horses. W’soran whirled towards the doors, his good eye blazing with anger. He could smell spilled blood and death. It had been a trap after all. He glanced at Shull. The old king still slumbered; whatever the hags had done to him still held.
Varna came for him again and his rage lent him strength. He caught her wrists and slammed her into the benches. He turned, robes flaring, and saw Iona speeding towards him, her feet barely seeming to touch the floor.
‘We did not come here to kill you, old monster, despite Varna’s impetuousness,’ she said, easily dodging his wild blow. Her fists crashed against his belly and shoulder, staggering him. She bounced out of reach and fell into a strange serpentine stance, arms raised and legs bent.
‘Cathay,’ he grunted, rubbing his shoulder. The blow hadn’t — quite — hurt. ‘I see Neferata has learned the fighting arts of the war-monks of the Bastion.’
‘Priestesses — women — should not be seen carrying blades,’ Iona said. ‘We did not come for your life.’
‘Then why did you?’ W’soran asked.
‘She wants to see you. She requires your counsel.’
‘Then let her come see me. I’m sure she knows by now where I reside.’
Iona made a face. ‘She has doubts as to your hospitality.’
‘As well she should,’ W’soran growled. ‘Did she ever tell you the jar story?’ Iona frowned in puzzlement. W’soran went on, ‘She once stabbed me and stuffed me in a jar. It was an experience one does not easily forget… or forgive. But I did try. I offered her palaces and power undreamt of and she turned on me again. She has tried to kill me numerous times since. And now… now she wants to see me? Now she asks for my counsel?’
He gave a bark of laughter. ‘No. She just wants to stuff me in another jar. But here is my counsel, regardless… huddle in your tomb. Close the doors. And leave the world to your betters, oh queen of dust and bones. This war does not concern Neferata. It never has. The sooner she realises that, the better.’
Iona did not react with anger. She inclined her head and said, ‘It was not a request. Our people have taken yours, by now. You are alone, and we will take you to the Silver Pinnacle in chains, if we must.’
‘Try, by all means.’ W’soran spread his arms with a smile. As the three Lahmians closed in on him, the dead kings of the Draesca sat up as one. There had been almost forty kings in the years since he had first gifted Volker with the helm, and their bodies had been wrapped tight and packed head to foot in the berths in the walls. They had been interred in full ceremonial panoply, with bronze breastplates and winged war-helms, and the best weapons of their tribe, whether sword, axe or spear, had been strapped to their hands. Now, they moved and shifted, ancient armour creaking and squealing as they dropped to the floor, mummified faces contorted by rictus snarls and their ancient majesty and brutal authority bound to W’soran’s will. Almost forty wight-kings, made stronger in death than they ever had been in life, turned their faces towards him, eyes blazing like will-o’-the-wisps.
The three Lahmians had frozen in shock as they suddenly found themselves surrounded. ‘What-? ’ Iona asked, eyes wide.
W’soran took a moment, savouring their sudden confusion. ‘Chains, was it?’ he asked. ‘Did you think me a jackal in a trap? That this place, amongst the entirety of these pathetic mountains, would be the place to attempt to take me? I told you… these people are mine. Dead or alive, they belong to me. I wonder — am I hurting Neferata by killing creatures as foolish as you, or helping her?’ He looked at the wights and raised a hand. ‘They grow tiresome. Kill them, mighty kings of the Draesca. Kill them for your master.’
Weapons, ranging from crude rust-splotched iron affairs to ornate dwarf-wrought blades and axes decorated with ceremonial inscriptions, were drawn with a collective hiss as the wights turned towards the trio of vampires and began to advance. W’soran stepped back, off to the side. Eager to see the carnage as he was, he thought he might be needed outside. It was becoming something of a habit, this disposal of Neferata’s pets. Perhaps it was time to see to her once and for all.
He reached the doors even as the first wight struck. One of the Lahmians screamed. He thrust the massive oaken double doors open with a single shove and examined the pigsty beyond. He clucked his tongue as he looked around the courtyard. Shull’s palace was located at the top of the uppermost barrow, and heavy paving stones marked the descent down from the upper courtyard, where the most important warrior lodges were located, to the bowl-shaped depression amongst the barrow fields below, where the bulk of the population of the settlement resided.
To call the main settlement of the Draesca a city, was to befoul the term. It was barely a town — squatting lodges and huts, occupying a series of descending and expanding plateaus, huddling behind a series of rough palisades, and the smell of cooking fires and unwashed bodies thick on the evening air. The Draesca had built their city on the barrows of their ancestors, carving themselves a place in a hill of burial. Even the lowest palisade rose above the hummocks of earth and stone that held untold generations of Draesca dead. The air, water and soil were saturated with the stuff of death. The people lived with it. They marched to war with their ancestors and their homes were built on bones and barrows.
Nonetheless, they were not noticeably quick to join the great majority. The Lahmians had struck with commendable swiftness, while the Draesca watched. His men, whom he’d left on the lower plateau, were dead or dying, all save a tiny knot of warriors who had sought refuge in one of the warrior lodges that spread out in disorganised fashion in a semi-circle around Shull’s laughable palace. One or two of his prospective apprentices lay dead as well. The others were with the Strigoi, watching the approach of the Lahmians with horrified awe through shattered wooden walls and tatty fur windbreaks. There were only six of the Lahmians, and in as many minutes, they had butchered three times their number.
‘And to think, Neferata once accused Ushoran of being profligate with our gift,’ he said, loudly. ‘Six little scullery maids, all in a row.’
His voice echoed down through the courtyard. The Lahmians below were not clad in robes, but in travelling leathers and piecemeal armour. In helms and cloaks, at a distance, human eyes might mistake them for men. Up close, there were too many curves and too few scars. They turned like hunting hounds at his call, their gear spattered with blood, their jaws agape and their weapons dark and dripping.