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.