He grunted, satisfied that the Draesca could bolster the flagging flank. His attentions switched to the centre, where the ranks of Strigoi spearmen waited, unmoving. Living men these, and seemingly disinclined to attack his silent ranks of skeletal soldiers. He wondered whether they had grown used to the dead in the intervening years, or whether their fear had only grown worse from the proximity.
‘Why aren’t you moving?’ he hissed, trying to gauge whether it was cowardice, or strategy. Then he caught sight of movement in the enemy’s rear — men, falling back and fleeing into the tree-line. Cowardice then — not unexpected, given how hard his forces had been pressing those of Strigos.
In the years following their attack on his watchtowers and border forts, W’soran had moved rapidly, striking multiple points at once and driving the invaders from his territory. His legions marched unimpeded across the frontier, burning and pillaging as they hammered the Strigoi lines, driving them back again and again. The Strigoi had gone from being on the offensive to being on the defensive, and quite rapidly. One by one, their forces crumpled and fell back, streaming through the crags and bowers of Ushoran’s domain.
It had been surprisingly easy. Ushoran’s forces outnumbered his, but Strigos’s defences were stretched thin. Wild tribes of men and orcs continued to attack the frontiers, and undoubtedly, Neferata was taking advantage of the situation in some fashion. Nonetheless, it was easier than he’d expected. And that worried him. But not enough to make him stay his invasion — the time had come.
Eventually, he knew, Ushoran — the thing that Ushoran had become — would have to face him. Nagash could never abide a direct challenge. Ushoran, possibly, but not Nagash. It was just a matter of applying the right amount of pressure. He leaned forward over the horn of his saddle, watching the Strigoi centre disintegrate. With a whisper, he set the ranks of skeletons standing before him to advancing. It was just a matter of pressure. What a torturer did to the body, a general did to the enemy army. It was a simple thing, taken in that regard, and he wondered that he had never before seen the simplicity of it.
The assassination attempt had been the signal, he now knew. It had been obvious — obvious! Ushoran was a wolf in a trap. W’soran wondered whether he could feel himself slipping away, to be buried beneath the black soil of the crown’s thoughts. He thought perhaps that Ushoran did, and that the attempt on his life had been a desperate ploy to end his threat obliquely. Perhaps Ushoran thought it a way to circumvent the crown’s prodding and pushing, and to stave off the inevitable.
The lines of the living gave way before the relentless march of the dead, and W’soran urged his horse forward with a slight smile. ‘Pressure,’ he murmured and gently clasped his amulets. Soon, he would need them. They would give him the power he needed to confront his old friend and rip him from his perch. A moment which was approaching swiftly — the Strigoi were retreating all across the frontier, falling back before his followers, the ragged remnants of their armies returning to Mourkain, ceding territory to the invaders. Horns blew, catching his attention.
He twisted in his saddle, and made a sharp motion. His bodyguard formed up in a protective phalanx. The wights wore heavy armour and had, in life, been chieftains of those tribes that W’soran had beaten into submission in the Vaults and the other nearby ranges. Now, in death, they served him as an imperial guard more than a hundred strong, ready to carry him through the fires of war to inevitable victory.
The horns belonged to the Strigoi, of course. In the tangle of battle, a group of riders had become separated from the rest, and they were galloping hard for their receding lines as his skeletal horsemen harried them. They crashed into the rear of his lines and he hissed in annoyance. The lead rider wore the black armour of Ushoran’s personal guard, and his snarling-visaged helm was decorated by trailing streamers of coloured cloth.
W’soran reacted quickly. At his silent command, the dead began to shift position, to encompass the riders. There was little sense in letting them reach safety, especially if the one in the lead was, as W’soran suspected, the enemy commander, Gashnag.
‘And won’t it be nice to see him again, eh?’ he muttered to himself as his steed charged. He leaned forward in the saddle, and his bodyguard spread out around him, smashing aside their own forces at his command. He could always resurrect them later, after all.
He straightened in his saddle as they closed and gave a ringing shriek. It was answered by several nearby packs of ghouls, all clad in primitive armour and adorned with coarse tattoos and brands. They wielded rough weapons — femurs with blades hammered through them, maces crafted from skulls, and crude digging implements repurposed for battle. Among them were several of the large war-ghouls of his own creation, and it was these beasts who answered his call and chivvied forward their smaller pack-mates. They loped towards the riders at W’soran’s cry, seeking to cut them off.
W’soran caught up with them a moment later. He jerked his mount to a trot as his wights thundered ahead, crashing into the enemy. When a hole had been punched through their ranks, he let his mount lunge forward through it. His sword licked out, lopping off the top of a rider’s head, and then he was face to face with Gashnag.
He’d been infamous among the court for his vanity and a maddening obsession with Cathayan silks and foreign trinkets. A slim creature, golden-haired and prone to fits of poetry, he’d nonetheless earned a reputation as a fierce duellist and ruthless killer. That was one of the reasons that W’soran had seen fit to employ both Gashnag and his cousin, Zandor, as his agents against Neferata’s machinations in better times. Zandor had perished at the Silver Pinnacle, but Gashnag seemed to have come into his own. His heavy helm had been struck from his head, and his hair was unbound, whipping about his thin face. His armour was black, but edged in gold and of fine craftsmanship. Intricate scenes from Mourkain’s history had been engraved on his cuirass and his pauldrons bore grimacing devil faces. His eyes widened as he caught sight of W’soran.
‘You,’ he snarled. His sword snapped out, hissing as it sliced the air. W’soran easily avoided the blow, jerking back in his saddle. Their mounts circled each other as they traded blows, their blades crashing together. ‘Traitor,’ Gashnag shouted.
‘Opportunist,’ W’soran corrected, scoring his opponent’s cuirass with a swift blow. Gashnag grimaced and aimed a slash at W’soran’s head. W’soran interposed his blade and pressed the blow aside. ‘If Ushoran put you in command, I must say I made the right decision. Not quite like those epic poems of the glorious wars waged by ancient Strigu, eh, Gashnag?’
They spun apart. The wights continued to fight with Gashnag’s men. Gashnag jerked his mount around and the horse smashed into W’soran’s bony steed. W’soran squawked as the other vampire slashed the straps of his saddle. He toppled from the top of his steed with a distinct lack of grace and crashed to the ground. Trapped by the thicket of stomping hooves that surrounded him, he instinctively curled into a ball, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. Nevertheless, sharp-edged hooves struck him and he crawled through the mud, trying to get clear.
A pair of hooves thudded down on his back and pain rippled the length of his spine. The hooves lifted, and W’soran flung himself onto his back, hands out-thrust. He spat a guttural stream of words and the rearing horse squealed as javelins of purest darkness pierced its belly and chest. It toppled like a cut tree, carrying Gashnag to the ground with it.
W’soran rose. He winced as his spine popped, realigning itself. Gashnag kicked his way free of his dying mount and rose to his feet, hands twitching as he sought the sword he’d dropped. Then he thrust out a hand and barked strange syllables. The air seemed to ignite and W’soran stepped back as his robes caught fire. Hissing in anger, he swept his arms out sharply, snuffing the fire. ‘That’s a new trick,’ he said.