Shull stood in the doorway of his palace, a hand raised, and his eyes alight with a weird glow. He looked even closer to death than before, and his ceremonial armour hung from his shrivelled frame. Nonetheless, his crooked, arthritic form radiated a terrible power. Shadows snapped and surged around him like pennants caught in a strong wind and the wights had formed about him like an honour guard.
‘I beg your forgiveness, my lord. The whispers of my beloved brother-kings awoke me from the cursed slumber these witches placed upon me.’ Shull’s glowing eyes fell upon Iona. She had clambered to her feet, and Varna and the other surviving Lahmians had joined her. ‘The Handmaidens of the Moon are no longer welcome in the lands of the Draesca. You have proven false, and dead or living you will find no friends here.’
His words echoed strangely across the settlement, slithering through the oily air and alighting in the ears of every watching tribesperson like bats seeking a roost. Weapons were drawn, and looks of grim determination replaced the previous expressions of fear and worry.
W’soran stepped away from the Lahmians, and grinned as Shull continued. ‘Wherever you go in our lands, the hand of every man will be turned against you, for this betrayal. You are accursed and I bid you go and trouble my sight no longer.’
The Lahmians hissed, and one — Varna — made as if to launch herself at Shull. But Iona grabbed her shoulder, halting her. She looked at Shull and inclined her head. ‘Let it not be said that the servants of the goddess of mercy and moon do not heed the commands of kings. We do not go where we are not invited.’ Her gaze switched to W’soran. ‘This could have been avoided, old monster. Now… it is war between us.’
‘Were you under the impression it was ever anything but?’ W’soran said. He exposed his fangs. He laughed. ‘Neferata and Ushoran both think they are entitled to rule this fallen world, one by blood and the other by delusion. But they are wrong,’ he called out to the Lahmians as they took their leave. ‘Only one among our accursed crew is fit to rule. Tell her that, little maid. Tell her what her old counsellor has said. Tell her that W’soran has decided to take what he is owed, and that the debt to him will soon be repaid in full and in blood!’
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.