The dead, as one, peered up at their master. W’soran gestured, as a man might to his faithful hounds, and they fell upon the wounded Strigoi. Tarka fought as best he could with broken bones and gaping throat, but when the wolf-thing fell upon him, its horrid corpse sparking with unnatural vitality, the fight ended abruptly as Tarka was scattered across the arena.
W’soran retracted his bloody arm and examined it. ‘Today’s lesson is ended. We march at dusk, my lords. See that you are ready, or we shall have another lesson.’
Chapter Thirteen
The City of Magritta
(Year -1017 Imperial Calendar)
W’soran lashed out with his blade, decapitating the guard and sending his body spinning aside. ‘Onward,’ he shrieked, gesturing for his acolytes and the dead legions that followed them to advance after him as he stormed up the great marble steps of the Temple of Myrmidia.
The very stones of the city of Magritta howled in agony as his undead legions stormed through the streets and washed the sun-baked bricks with blood. On his right, Zoar tore the head from another temple-guard and lashed the ranks of panicking city militia with sorcerous fire. The Yaghur howled with laughter as he killed men by the dozens.
W’soran raced up the stairs, brushing aside the guards in their archaic bronze armour and robes. He had spent the past three decades killing many such men — in Araby, Tilea and now Estalia, where he was known as Nourgul the Wamphyro. The gods of Nehekhara might be dead and dust, but there were newer gods with newer wisdoms, and W’soran wanted them. He had spent the years since his expulsion from Lashiek hunting secrets. Nagash, he knew, had learned some of his wisdom from the druchii. They had bargained dark secrets for sanctuary, for all the good it had done them, in the end.
He had run across several members of that race in his hunt. None had been particularly forthcoming, but he had gotten what he needed regardless. As he would claim what he desired this time, even if every follower of this paltry hill-goddess thought to stand in his path. He had defeated the silent stranglers of the Black Oasis in Araby, and slaughtered the corsair-witches of the Sartosian reefs to claim the secrets they guarded, and he would do the same to these so-called Myrmidons. It was said that the Temple of Myrmidia housed one of the greatest libraries in the known world. It was a storehouse of knowledge, and W’soran intended to plunder it.
A warrior met him as he ascended the last stair, leaping heroically to the attack, his wide-bladed spear sliding across the surface of his shield in a screech of metal-on-metal. W’soran caught the head of the spear and flung it to the side, even as his blade crashed into the guard’s shield. The man staggered back, off balance, and W’soran lashed out with a kick. Metal buckled and the warrior was flung backwards. He slumped against the doors and let his dented and crumpled shield roll free of his grip. With a groan, he drew the short, leaf-shaped blade sheathed at his hip and staggered to his feet, sword in one hand and spear in the other.
W’soran gave him no time to recover. He lunged beneath the spear thrust and batted aside the short sword, and sank his fangs into the man’s thick neck. With a twist of his head, he ripped out the guard’s throat and sprang over the body as it fell. The doors had been blown off their hinges by an earlier sorcerous blast, and he easily stepped inside.
The central forecourt of the temple was massive. Vast marble columns rose upwards, holding up the great domed roof. A giant statue of the goddess herself stood sentinel in the centre of the forecourt, leaning on a shield and clutching a heavy spear, an eagle on her shoulder, its wings fully spread. Her eyes seemed to glare down at W’soran and he grinned.
A phalanx of at least fifty Myrmidons awaited him, shields raised and spears lowered. They were clad in bronze cuirasses and greaves, and wore full-face rounded helms topped by flaring horse-hair crests. As one, they stepped forward in tight formation, as if to drive him back through the doors.
‘Oh no, I’m not leaving without what I came for,’ W’soran hissed, acknowledging their intent. ‘I didn’t raise every pox-ridden corpse between here and the northern coast just to get chased off by a bunch of bully-boys.’ He gestured, pulling tight the strands of dark magic that swirled about him like an infernal halo. The spirits of the dead, some from the marshy barrows he’d discovered near Magritta and some newly wrenched from their cooling bodies, billowed through the open doors and washed over him, roiling and splashing silently towards the Myrmidons.
The Myrmidons met the rushing wall of ghosts with silent stoicism, even as many of their number fell and died and joined the spectral throng. They pressed forward, ignoring the dead, and men from the rear rows moved to fill the gaps in the front ranks. By the time they reached him, barely a third remained, but impossibly, they did not stop.
W’soran gaped, nonplussed, but then swept his sword out and spat a flurry of incantations. Black lightning jolted from his eyes, punching holes in the phalanx, and sorcerous fire engulfed men. The ghosts tore at the rest, but still, they came on. The first spears reached him a moment later, driving at him with cruel inexorability. Desperate now, he slashed out, chopping through them. Shields struck him, pushing him back. He was stronger than any man, any dozen men, but nonetheless, they forced him back towards the doors, even as he cursed and railed.
Zoar came to his aid, followed by those of his acolytes who were at the forefront of the battle. The vampires hit the phalanx like a thunderbolt, tearing through it and giving W’soran the room he needed to use his full strength. Soon enough, it dissolved into red ruin, as men died where they stood, trying to prevent the vampires from entering their temple.
W’soran stepped over the bodies, gore dripping from his armour and skin. ‘Shut those doors. I want no interruptions,’ he barked, gesturing behind him without turning. He met the goddess’s marble gaze and laughed softly. ‘It’s mine,’ he said.
‘Perhaps — then again, perhaps not,’ a deep voice murmured.
W’soran hissed and turned. Abhorash, clad in bronze mail and a cuirass emblazoned with the face of the goddess, stepped from around the statue, holding a heavy spear. Behind him came his Hand, the four vampires spreading out around their leader. Each was arrayed in a similar fashion, though they carried swords rather than spears.
‘What are you doing here?’ W’soran sputtered.
Abhorash didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he looked up at the statue of the goddess. An expression, wistful and sad, crossed his hawk-like features. Then, he smiled slightly and looked back at W’soran. ‘Repaying a debt,’ he said, simply. Then, he tossed the spear up, caught it easily and sent it hurtling, point-first, towards W’soran’s heart.
The Worlds Edge Mountains