W’soran grunted, still watching the battle below. ‘Which one are you?’
‘Tarka of Tzimtzi, at your service, great one,’ the Strigoi said as he made a courtly bow. ‘Newly arrived from the demesnes of Mourkain.’
‘Courtier,’ Ullo spat. ‘Thin-blooded fop.’
‘Ah, Ullo, the others mentioned you were here as well — it’s like no time has passed at all since I last saw you. How did your little military coup go? Not well, I’m guessing.’ Tarka grinned mockingly, and Ullo hunched towards him. W’soran interposed an arm.
‘No better than your attempt to poison Ushoran,’ Ullo said, stepping back and dropping his hand to his sword pommel. ‘I heard he drained the doxy and returned her to you after the fact, with his compliments.’
W’soran watched the byplay, amused. The Court of Mourkain was a snake-pit in more ways than one. Ushoran had used the blood-kiss as a reward for service and had turned hundreds of nobles in his reign, and they in turn had done the same. Assassination had quickly become the preferred method of social and political advancement among the undying aristocracy. Immortality made inheritance a tricky prospect, even among a people for whom duelling was a common solution to a variety of problems.
‘Well, aren’t we a pretty party of traitors, then,’ Tarka said. ‘Unless Vorag sets his primitive fundament on the throne, then, of course we’re heroes.’ His dark eyes found W’soran. ‘And where is Vorag, by the by? I’ve been here three years without seeing either hide or hair of the Bloodytooth.’
‘I’d consider that three years well spent,’ W’soran said. ‘But the time has come to earn your keep — aye, you and the rest of these fools.’ He gestured to the other Strigoi, who were now watching them, as opposed to the fight below.
‘Oh?’ Tarka asked. ‘And just how will we be doing that? And, who are you to suggest it? You are no more master here than I am,’ he continued, smiling slightly. The other Strigoi drew closer. Down below, the vampire fighting the wolf-thing had regained his perch on the creature’s back and his hands fastened on its jaws, prying them open. With a heave of mighty shoulders, the Strigoi snapped the brute’s neck.
W’soran cocked his head. ‘I? I am the ruler of the citadel. I am your host, and I’d say you owe me a debt of hospitality, if not loyalty.’
‘A debt of hospitality, you say?’ Tarka asked, turning slightly to include the other Strigoi. ‘Ruler of this citadel, you say? I came here to serve the Bloodytooth, not some withered old bat! I know you, W’soran. They say you fled from Mourkain with your tail between your legs, looking for sanctuary in Vorag’s coterie.’
W’soran laughed softly. Ullo had stepped back, his gaze calculating. The Strigoi had become complacent in their sanctuary. That was partly his fault, he knew. He was used to the unquestioning obedience of the dead, and had not considered that the Strigoi might, in their own, unsubtle way, have plans of their own. Those who desired battle were out defending his empire already; all that was left here were those who desired to be on the winning side, but did not necessarily desire to contribute to that victory.
Thin-blooded fops, cowards and conspirators, these were to be his generals. W’soran exposed his fangs, wondering if, in some odd way, this had been Ushoran’s plan all along. Ushoran had, in one of his thousand disguises, fomented rebellions and conspiracies aplenty in Lahmia, and then crushed them. Perhaps this was something similar — a centuries-long purging of untrustworthy elements, now that their use had ended. That alone proved Ushoran as the most deadly of those who pitted themselves against him. Neferata would butcher hundreds in a moment of spite, but she was incapable of the pragmatic bleeding that Mourkain had required. But Ushoran thought like W’soran. He saw his followers for what they were — tools. Tools to be discarded or re-forged as circumstances dictated.
He dismissed the thought a moment later. Even if it were true, there was no help for it now. One worked with what one had. He met Tarka’s gaze and inclined his head. ‘As you say, but Vorag left this citadel in my command. And I have built it into the centre of a growing empire, an empire of which you are subjects, an empire I am calling upon you to defend.’
‘Under your command,’ another Strigoi barked.
‘Who better?’ W’soran asked.
‘Anyone,’ Tarka said bluntly. ‘You are no warrior — you are barely a castellan. We see more of your bat-faced servant than we do of you, W’soran. You hide in your stinking lair, or scuttle about on the fringes, clinging to Ullo’s skirts. You are no Strigoi.’ Tarka spat, and a gobbet of bloody spittle struck the hem of W’soran’s robes. ‘You are barely a man. Even that witch, Neferata, is more of a warrior than you.’
‘Then why did you not go to Silver Pinnacle to serve her?’ W’soran asked. He smiled thinly. ‘I’ll tell you why — she wouldn’t have you. Neferata has no use for creatures like you. But I do.’
‘Maybe we have none for you,’ Tarka said. His smile was wolfish. The other Strigoi were watching intently. The one from the arena had joined them, covered in the wolf-thing’s foul-smelling blood. Belatedly, W’soran noticed the necklace of fangs dangling from Tarka’s neck, and a flutter of amusement passed through him.
He had been expecting this, or something like it, for some time. Vorag’s authority had grown distant and thin, and not every Strigoi possessed Ullo’s remarkable strain of competent self-interest. Vampires had short memories when it came to authority. Unless it was obvious and undeniable, they inevitably attempted to wriggle out from under it.
‘Oh, I’m sure you could find some use for my poor self. Old W’soran knows a few tricks,’ he said. He glanced at the crowd of Strigoi. There were more than a dozen of them. He didn’t need all of them, certainly not Tarka. ‘For instance…’
Tarka lunged, as quickly as a shadow. W’soran completed his surreptitious gesture regardless, and caught the Strigoi’s throat with his free hand. The Strigoi’s eyes widened as he realised just how strong the withered vampire was. In the arena pit, the mounds and heaps of dead flesh began to quiver. W’soran turned and Tarka’s feet scraped the palisade helplessly as he found himself dangling over the edge of the pit, W’soran’s claws hooked into the meat of his throat.
Below him, the dead had risen. They circled beneath the helpless Tarka like jackals on the hunt. He thrashed in W’soran’s grip, but couldn’t break it. W’soran ignored his flailing and focused on the other Strigoi. ‘Yes, I know a few tricks. And those tricks are all that keep you safe in these lands. Our enemies circle us, like the dead below circle this fool, waiting to rip him lip to loin. You think to challenge me for leadership? I welcome your challenges. If one of you would prefer to take the burden of leadership from my poor, tired shoulders, let him step forward. If one of you has tricks comparable to mine, if one of you can wring loyalty from the great majority of the charnel field, by all means, step forward.’ He shook Tarka for emphasis. With his good eye, W’soran glared at the muttering Strigoi. ‘Well? Who’s it going to be, my fine, brave lords of Mourkain, hmm? Who steps forward, eh? Just Tarka, then — perhaps he speaks for you all, eh?’ His gaze slowly slid to the red features of Tarka, who hammered at W’soran’s forearm with no more effect than a feather beating against an iron bar.
‘Did you think me weak, Tarka? Did you think to add poor, old W’soran’s fangs to your collection? Is that what you thought?’ he snarled, shaking the Strigoi. ‘In my youth, I was something of a teacher — a humble tutor to aristocrats and the puling whelps of kings. You are certainly older, but definitely no wiser than those scheming brats, so I will teach you as I taught them. Lesson the first… I am to you as you are to those rotting carcasses below. I am the first and in me is the strength of ages. I have killed nations and drained the lifeblood of empires, while you are nothing more than fleas in the hide of history. Lesson the second… never forget lesson the first, or I shall dispense with you as easily… as… this.’ So saying, W’soran crushed Tarka’s throat, rendering it a gory, gaping ruin. Gagging and choking, the Strigoi slid from his grip and crashed to the arena floor.