‘Not for long. The dead move fast, and the kings of the Great Land have woken in their hundreds, to reclaim their ancient demesnes. Numas once claimed these marshes. Ptar and the other kings will soon put this place to the torch. A matter of weeks, I estimate, until the pecking order is sorted out amongst the awakened kings, and the sortie is launched.’ He set his own goblet down and ran a finger across his lips, wiping away the blood that clung there. It had belonged to a young woman that Ushoran had purchased from a disreputable Arabyan slaver of his acquaintance that evening and subsequently gutted. ‘I, for one, do not intend to be here when they arrive.’
‘Sensible,’ W’soran muttered, clutching his goblet in both hands. He hesitated, then asked the question that had been bothering him since they’d arrived. ‘Why did you save me?’
The bats had done their job well. The dead of Nehekhara had been distracted while W’soran made his escape. With Ushoran as their guide, they had come to the settlement within a few days. The pursuit had broken off after Ushoran’s ambush, though W’soran doubted that Ptar was once more safely in his grave. Nehekhara was in upheaval, despite the unloving state of its people. King fought king in the streets of every city and silent legions clashed in the wastes between. Ptar likely couldn’t waste the time hunting W’soran any longer, not with eighteen generations of his fellow kings jostling for control of his territories.
Ushoran was silent for a moment. Then, he looked through the flattened strips of marsh-reed that made up the curtain over the entrance to the lodge. It was night outside, and a silvery moon graced the sea with its kiss. He picked up his goblet and took a sip. ‘I never let a useful tool go to waste,’ Ushoran said.
W’soran grimaced. ‘I am no tool of yours, Lord of Masks.’
‘Not at the moment, no,’ Ushoran said. ‘But who can say what the future holds?’
W’soran gave a snort of laughter. He sobered quickly. ‘I could have used your aid in Nagashizzar.’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference,’ Ushoran said dismissively, watching the moon.
‘It might have,’ W’soran said. He cocked an eye at the other vampire. ‘Where were you? The rest of us were sent out, but you…’
‘Nagash forgot about me.’ Ushoran tapped the side of his head. ‘He forgot a lot, towards the end.’
W’soran was suddenly alert. ‘You saw how he died?’
‘I saw much, in those final days,’ Ushoran said, softly. ‘He wasn’t a god, you know.’
‘I’m well aware of Nagash’s failings,’ W’soran said. Then, suspiciously, ‘What did you have to do with it, Ushoran?’
‘Nothing, W’soran,’ He said and smiled. ‘Then, perhaps something.’ He sighed and looked away. ‘It was Alcadizzar. The ratkin freed him and gave him a blade. They almost didn’t find him.’ He took another sip of blood and made a face. ‘They were quite surprised, at the time. But they are a race used to treachery, and they didn’t question.’
W’soran stared. ‘You treacherous animal…’ he hissed. ‘You helped them. You helped them!’ He stood and gestured accusingly. ‘It was your fault — all of it was your fault!’ A flush of rage filled him — not for Nagash’s sake, or even for what had been lost, but for himself. He’d seen no hint of treachery in the other vampire, and it annoyed him to be made a fool of.
Ushoran leaned back in his seat. ‘Yes. It was.’
‘Why?’ W’soran demanded, looming over the seemingly unconcerned Ushoran.
‘Why?’ Ushoran asked. He set his goblet aside and stood slowly. ‘He killed us, W’soran. He killed our people — every man, woman and child. He killed every animal and every oasis. He killed our history and our future. He killed the Great Land for spite, and for spite’s sake, I helped his killers in turn.’
W’soran stepped back, frowning. ‘Don’t tell me you felt something for them. You were happy enough to bleed the living when we ruled…’
‘It was ours, W’soran,’ Ushoran said, and there was heat to his words, now. ‘The Great Land was ours. It belonged to us. We lifted it from the muck and made it a land to be feared once again!’
‘And then you let it slip through your fingers,’ W’soran said. ‘Was this about revenge, then? Dead is dead. What matters the how of it, or who made the killing stroke?’
Ushoran smiled and shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, do you?’ The smile faded. ‘We could have made an empire to rival Settra’s, and instead we allowed it all to fall to dust. And Nagash… Nagash was a monster. He would have seen the end of everything. Does that prospect truly appeal to you, W’soran? Is a slow march to oblivion what you truly want? Or do you desire something else?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why did you serve Nagash, W’soran? Men only serve when they are too afraid to rule.’
W’soran hesitated. ‘You served Neferata,’ he said. ‘And Nagash!’
‘Yes. I was afraid. But I have seen the grinning skull beneath the skin of the world now, and fear is no longer in me. But you — you stink of it, W’soran. You always have, you know. Fear and need. Just like me.’ Ushoran laid a hand on his scrawny shoulder. ‘What do you fear, W’soran?’
W’soran brushed his hand aside. ‘I fear nothing.’ It was a lie, and he could tell Ushoran knew that it was a lie. The other vampire smiled slightly.
‘Then why do you keep running?’Ushoran asked. He emptied his goblet. ‘I am going north. You are free to accompany me, or seek your own fortune.’
‘What do you intend to do in the north?’ W’soran asked, looking down into his goblet, and the dregs that remained there. ‘There’s nothing out there but mountains and savages.’
‘I told you — fear has been burned out of me. There are kingdoms over the mountains, crude brawling child-kingdoms, where a strong man… a smart man, might rule. Where dust might be stirred, and glory once again awakened.’ Ushoran exposed his fangs.
‘I will go north and build an empire.’
Crookback Mountain
(Year -280 Imperial Calendar)
‘Has there been any word from Vorag?’ W’soran asked, climbing down from his saddle. Brackish blood coated his limbs and robes and he could still taste the throat of the last orc he’d killed, though it had been several days ago. Mindless corpse-servants waited nearby, clutching heavy buckets full of cistern water. As he walked towards them, W’soran stripped off his armour and tossed it to his acolytes, who followed him like a bevy of baby chicks.
The stable was a recent innovation, built to house the substantial force of skeletal cavalry that the citadel now contained. None of the scents and sounds a living man would associate with stables were evident, for all the beasts in it were dead, and were, if not quietly rotting, then simply quiet. Their riders, clad in verdigris-coated mail, slumped against the stalls, waiting for the moment they would be commanded to mount and once more ride to war.
‘Not for some months,’ Melkhior said, passing a gore-encrusted pauldron to another acolyte with a grimace of distaste. He had been waiting in the stables for W’soran to arrive, fresh from the destruction of the final remnants of the Red Eye Waaagh. It had taken five years, but the deed was done, and, to W’soran’s way of thinking, done well indeed. ‘Then, is that any surprise?’
‘No. In point of fact, it means everything is going according to plan,’ W’soran said. He snapped his fingers, and the zombies with the buckets upended them over him, sluicing off the majority of the blood and offal that covered him. While hygiene was not one of his main concerns, there was a point where even his fossilised sensibilities were offended.