‘Handy to know,’ W’soran murmured. He watched the fires that consumed the village for a moment, considering. Then, ‘We shall simply have to make sure that we fight dirtier.’ He looked at the Strigoi. ‘You know what to do, my lords. Time is not on our side. Let us begin.’
Time might not have been on their side, but it was a simple enough matter to make sure the weather was. One of the first incantations that W’soran had learned was a spell to darken the sky and cause the clouds to grow black and angry. Though he was not as sensitive to light as his followers, he saw no reason to endure even that limited discomfort. It didn’t require much effort in any event — winter was stalking down from the mountains on bone-white paws. By the time Tarhos had joined them, the sky was the color of a frost-bitten limb and the clouds were heavy with incipient snows.
It had taken six days for Tarhos to reach them. In that time, Arpad had led the slave wagons south-east, towards the safety of Draesca territory, while W’soran and the others went in the opposite direction. If Abhorash had been with the enemy, W’soran would have worried that he might have bullied the other commander into following Arpad, but Walak, true to Ullo’s assertions, seemed disinclined towards the mock-heroism that Abhorash was unable to avoid indulging in.
What followed were days of running battle. With deft application of his forces, W’soran caught and held the attentions of the enemy’s scouts and outriders. Dead wolves, dragged from icy graves by his craft, lunged through the curtain of falling snow to drag down lone horsemen or to hurl themselves, slavering, their fleshless jaws spread wide, into the packed ranks of marching men. Skeletons squatted beneath snow drifts and rose to the attack amidst their enemy, striking out in all directions. He sacrificed hundreds of the dead to buy mere hours, knowing even as he did it that it would inflame and provoke his pursuers. As Ullo had said, Horda was a beast with a gnaw-bone.
The enemy left a trail of corpses in their wake. W’soran wondered, briefly, at the lack of necromantic magics, and the waste of such wonderful material, but then pushed the thought aside. What business of his was it if his enemies deprived themselves of a useful tool? Abhorash had never approved of sorcery, and it was likely his brood felt the same way.
On the tenth day, they made their stand. The ground was thick with snow, and uneven, broken by rocks, hills and scrub trees. At their back was a vast frozen lake, and the air was redolent with the sounds of grinding, cracking ice and the dull slap of freezing water. W’soran ordered the dead into neat ranks, their backs to the water, ready to meet the enemy’s charge. Then, with Ullo and Tarhos, he retreated to a safe distance to wait.
‘Tell me about the orcs,’ W’soran said, as they waited. He glanced at his acolyte, a Draesca named Merck, who’d been assigned to aid Tarhos. ‘Their numbers, their disposition, anything pertinent to this affair, Merck…’
‘The Red Eyes are a large tribe, master. They came down through the Peak Pass and swept most of the smaller tribes west. They’re heading south, though not in any great hurry,’ Merck said, stroking his ratty beard. His flesh was thick with wrinkles and his eyes were like black pits. Rodent-like fangs left shallow cuts in his thin lips.
W’soran nodded. He’d sent Tarhos to divert the orcs from rampaging into the path of his legions, while he conducted his own raids. He’d assumed they were a local tribe, however, like the Iron Claws.
‘They’ve come farther than I would have thought,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised Abhorash hasn’t… ha.’ He blinked. ‘Oh, oh you old fool, W’soran. Poor old W’soran, your mind has turned to stone!’ He laughed. ‘South, you say? From the Peak Pass, you say, yes?’ He looked at the Strigoi. Tarhos had a blank look on his face, but Ullo-
‘The witch,’ he rasped.
‘Yes! There might be hope for you yet, Ullo. Neferata! She always was good at handling savages. Somehow, she’s diverting them, sending this large tribe directly for us, while funnelling the run-off, the dregs, west into Strigos.’ He pounded a fist into his palm. ‘Two birds with one stone was always Neferata’s preference, greedy girl that she is.’ He could see her plan now, as if she’d laid it out for him herself… an orc Waaagh wasn’t like a normal army. It was more like runoff from a mountain stream, gathering force and strength as it crashed down. The Red Eyes wouldn’t be weakened, if they fought their way across the mountains, into the east. To the contrary, they’d only grow stronger and fiercer.
‘Another splinter in my heart, eh?’ he muttered. ‘Well, let’s hope that the Strigoi can put a dent in them for us, eh?’
They caught sight of the first horsemen a few moments later, galloping through the distant trees. Ullo gave a grunt, attracting W’soran’s attention. ‘They’re here.’
‘Of course they are. They smell blood. We are cornered prey, and our kind finds it hard to resist that,’ W’soran said. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘The hill-tribes call this place the Black Water. They swear there are beasts in the water.’ He turned back, and looked at Tarhos. ‘Where are the orcs?’
‘A few hours out, maybe less, if they get a scent of man-flesh,’ the big Strigoi said, scratching his cheek with his hook. ‘Your sorcery and the weather have kept them hidden, and they’ve been taking advantage of it, the green-skinned animals.’
‘Good,’ W’soran said. ‘When the time comes, you know what to do?’
The two Strigoi looked sullen. Tarhos nodded, but said, ‘I dislike running from a fight.’
‘Then by all means stay and battle on,’ W’soran said, ‘but I intend to run, when the time comes, and this army, once it has done its job, will collapse, so you’ll be fighting alone.’ He grinned. ‘Of course, I’d have thought that that would appeal to brutes like you.’
‘Careful, sorcerer,’ Ullo said, waving down Tarhos’s snarl of anger. ‘You still need us just as much as we need you, if only to keep Vorag happy. You recall Vorag, I trust? Your master and ours, for whom we wage these battles,’ he continued.
W’soran frowned. ‘Was that a threat?’
‘Merely a reminder,’ Ullo said. He looked towards the trees. ‘Tarhos has a point — why should we retreat? Why not crush the orcs as well? With your sorcery, we could have quite the army after a few hours. And end two threats at once.’
‘You have fought orcs, Ullo. Do you think we could crush them? Or do you think we would become bogged down, fighting an ever-growing number of greenskin savages?’ W’soran flung out a hand, indicating the dark peaks that rose around them like monstrous fangs digging for the throat of the sky. ‘There’s a reason the dawi simply close their doors and let the savages wash across their mountains… they are not an army, but a storm. You do not fight a storm — you wait for it to pass. Neferata might have shattered the great Waaagh centuries ago, but the orcs still cling to these crags like limpets. They are growing in strength, and I want that strength directed away from us and towards Mourkain. Let Ushoran shed the blood of his slaves on orc blades. And even if the Red Eyes continue their pursuit, I would rather face them from a position of strength, than in enemy territory.’
‘And what if his necromancers raise an army from them?’ Ullo asked shrewdly. ‘For Ushoran will defeat them. Of that I have no doubt.’
‘And so,’ W’soran shrugged. ‘We have enslaved tribes of the beasts ourselves, and Vorag sends more westward as he tears a bleeding hole in those mountains. And it will take Ushoran years to do so. Even with our help, it took him centuries to do the job the first time. Without us — indeed, with Neferata actively working at cross-purposes — it will take him much, much longer.’
He leaned towards Ullo. The sound of Strigoi horns was carried towards them on the wind, but he ignored them. ‘We are merely buying time, my lords. Every battle we fight, every raid we conduct is to buy us — to buy Vorag — a few more days of grace. We will bleed Strigos white and set it stumbling towards doom, and then, at the last, we will take it!’ His hand snapped out, snatching a tumbling snowflake from the air for emphasis. Tarhos flinched back, as if W’soran’s hand were a striking spider. Ullo merely grunted. He looked back towards the trees.