W’soran hissed and dug his claws into his scalp, as if to extract all of his suspicions and toss them aside. He had to know. If he did not know — if he made a move, and it was wrong, the game was lost. When Ullo arrived a week later, W’soran realised that, intentional or not, he had been distracted and that the game had continued without him.
The blunt-headed Strigoi burst into his laboratory, trailed by acolytes and crooked servants, stalking forward in the face of Melkhior’s shouted protests. W’soran had ordered that he not be disturbed, and for once, Melkhior had obeyed him unquestioningly. Ullo brushed him aside in a casual display of strength and tossed something onto the ground at W’soran’s feet.
W’soran’s good eye narrowed as he peered at the thing. He recognised it easily enough — it was Tarhos’s hook, badly cracked, scorched and stained. Given its condition, he doubted that there was much left of its owner. ‘That does not bode well,’ he murmured. His gaze flickered up to Ullo. ‘What happened?’
‘Abhorash happened,’ Ullo snarled. ‘While you’ve been busy chasing shadows, Ushoran has launched a full scale assault on our borders. Every pass and every valley we hold is under siege, sorcerer!’
‘I knew it,’ Melkhior crowed. ‘I knew it. It was a distraction — no, a prelude!’ He pounded the air with his fists. ‘It was Ushoran, master. He has declared open war on us — on Vorag!’
‘Has he? I wonder…’ W’soran stroked his chin and looked down at the hook. Gingerly, he bent and retrieved it, letting it dangle from one long finger. ‘It stinks of magic. One of his false Mortuary Cult members did for the brute, I assume?’
‘Not just any member. Arpad said it was Morath himself,’ Ullo growled.
W’soran stiffened. ‘Well… well, well, well. And where is Arpad now?’
‘Attempting to save our little empire, sorcerer,’ Ullo snapped, crossing his arms. ‘Just as I was — I only returned to bring word and to see if I could dislodge your rump from this musty hole. We must act and soon, or everything we’ve won these past few years will be gone.’
‘And we can’t have that, can we,’ W’soran grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. ‘Fine then, to war once more, I suppose.’
‘Not just war. It is time, master,’ Melkhior said. He turned and began barking orders at the other acolytes. ‘It is time to teach our enemies what fear truly is. Urdek, Gavok, ready our forces! Today, the sons of W’soran march to Mourkain and throw the pretender from his throne. Spiro, send word to the east, and recall Vorag — let him know what is happening and that he must return! Malang, send riders to our envoys to bring their forces home-’
‘Stop,’ W’soran said, raising his hand. The acolytes froze, like mice sighted by a hawk. All save Melkhior, who turned, a look of confusion on his grotesque features.
‘Master, what is it?’
‘I need only two. Urdek, Malang, you will come with me. The rest of you will stay here and oversee the citadel. Melkhior, as ever, is castellan.’ He stepped away from his throne and caressed Melkhior’s cheek. ‘You are more useful here, my son. Guard well my tomes and house, and I will reward you upon my return.’
‘I can serve you better in the field. Urdek and Malang lack my power,’ Melkhior protested. ‘They are nothing — weaklings!’
‘You are more powerful. But you lack their skill,’ W’soran said. ‘You are as much a brute as Tarhos was. You smash when you should slice, and roar when you should retreat. Thus, you will stay here, where your power will more than make up for their absence.’ It was a bald lie. Melkhior had skill aplenty, but what he lacked was subtlety.
His apprentice had been pushing for war for months; longer even, when W’soran stopped to consider it. Once again, he ruminated ruefully on his choice of his servants. Melkhior lacked the temperament for sorcery. He was powerful, true, and a sponge for the stuff of magic. When he honestly reflected on the matter, W’soran suspected that the former nobleman was almost his equal in that regard. But he could not be trusted. Not on the battlefield.
Melkhior opened his mouth to respond and W’soran grabbed his jaw in a painful grip. ‘I’d advise you to make your next words ones of gratitude, my son,’ he murmured.
‘What of Vorag?’ Ullo asked.
‘What about him?’ W’soran asked, not breaking eye contact with Melkhior. ‘This is why he left us here, if you’ll recall. I’d hate for him to think that he could not trust us.’ He released Melkhior and his apprentice stumbled back into his fellows. ‘Where are your fellows, Ullo? Those who are not heroically engaged in the defence of our mighty empire? Have they flown the coop, looking for safer pastures, or are they with us still?’
‘Unless you’ve stuck a knife in their guts, they’re still here,’ Ullo said.
‘Wonderful. Let us go give them a rousing speech, yes? Get them ready for the war they claim to desire, eh?’ He bustled past his acolytes, leading Ullo out of the laboratory. ‘Come, Ullo, come!’
W’soran had lost track of those Strigoi still in the mountain. He left such details up to Melkhior these days. Most, easily bored by what amounted to garrison duty, made up missions for themselves, and led savage raids on what could loosely be termed ‘enemy territory’. The rest, not really interested in conquest or glory so much as in not being under Ushoran’s thumb, lounged about the mountain, getting on his nerves or making idiotic demands of his acolytes when they weren’t engaging in barbaric duels or slipshod intrigue.
Those ones in particular would make excellent shock troops, he thought. When he broached the suggestion as they left the laboratory and descended to the section of the mountain that the Strigoi had made their own, Ullo agreed. They found the bulk of them easily enough. One of the larger caverns had been converted into a crude facsimile of the great arena of Mourkain, where captured beasts and prisoners of war fought for the amusement of the populace. It had been easy enough — the Strigoi weren’t alone in their love of blood sports, for the skaven had had their own fighting pits, and this cavern had once rung with the squeals of excited skaven as they watched rat ogres tear apart slaves or captured trolls.
It rang now with the bellows of bloodthirsty Strigoi, who crouched on the wide, brazier-lined walkway ringing the open pit, watching and wagering on the vicious battle below. One of their own bounded through small hills of offal and decomposing corpses to meet a charging monster. It resembled a wolf, albeit a wolf that had been inflated and stretched over too-long bones and the wrong kind, at that. Matted hair, stiff with blood, sprouted from it, and hunks of raw, pink flesh hung from its frame like some form of grotesque decoration. There was something of the ape in it, and something almost daemonic as well, and the cavern seemed to quake with its howls as it charged to meet the Strigoi. The vampire ducked beneath a wild swipe and slithered around the brute, finding purchase on its back. Fangs flashed, and the wolf-thing screamed chillingly as it reared and clawed for its attacker.
‘Another northern freak,’ Ullo muttered as he led W’soran up onto the viewing platform. ‘More of them drift south every season. I wonder where they found that one.’
W’soran could tell that the wolf-thing stank of dark magic, even from such a distance. A foulness akin to that which clung to the abn-i-khat amulets still dangling from his neck seemed to seep from the beast’s pores. With a roar, it ripped the Strigoi from its back and sent the vampire tumbling across the pit. After shaking itself, it loped forward with an awkward gait, like something not quite sure whether it should be running on two legs or four.
‘There’re whole packs of these things north of the mountains. Every time the witch-moon rises, they boil out of the wastes like locusts. Damn things refuse to die, even if you rip them apart,’ one of the nearby Strigoi said. He was a handsome creature, as such things were judged, with a well-tended scalp lock and cunning features. ‘Took three of us just to knock that one out and drag it back here for a bit of entertainment. We’ve been throwing it slaves, but that got dull.’