It reeked of old blood and bodily fluids and it was crudely carved in places. He glanced aside, at the heavy stakes set into the ground around it at intervals, and the bodies that had been tied to them. They were men, though of a tribe he was unfamiliar with: brawny and pale, with sharp features and their scalps shorn clean save for greased scalp-locks. There were a number of them, and all were dead. The beastmen had been eating them, a bit at a time. Most had died before the creatures got past their waists, though at least one had lived long enough to see his intestines chewed like sausage. Bits of the dead men had been smeared on the stone, like a primitive offering.
W’soran had encountered the beasts before, though their numbers seemed to be increasing the farther north he went. He had seen their herdstones as well, though none quite this… decorated. The warping magics contained in the fang of stone reminded him of a starving cur, equally likely to bite off his hand as lick his palm. It was untrustworthy, and while he had several tomes containing incantations relating to similar sorceries, he had yet to experiment with them.
‘Master,’ Zoar began, ‘is this…?’
‘No,’ W’soran said harshly. It wasn’t the dark beacon he had sensed all those weeks ago, the beacon that had drawn him ever further into the wilds, pulsing in the sky like a black sun. It was not a real sun but instead more akin to an afterimage, a darker-than-dark blotch on the retina of his mind’s eye, burning cold and hungry beneath the moon. He felt it calling to him in his quiet moments, purring seductively in his mind, infiltrating his thoughts. There was a malign familiarity to the voice, and something in it made him very afraid. It was a ringing depth that he could not plumb, no matter how hard he listened. It pulled him on, like a bell in the night, summoning him.
Instinctively, his eyes slid away from the stone and his gaze rose, finding the blotch. The voice was whispering again, just a brief hiss of dim noise, just on the edge of his hearing. Irritated, he shook his head. ‘Stop it, stop hissing at me,’ he growled to no one in particular.
‘Master,’ Zoar said.
‘What?’ W’soran snapped, turning.
Men watched them, men with bows, who had seemingly crept out of the trees as silently as ghosts. They closely resembled the bodies slumped against the stakes, albeit more vital. W’soran watched them approach calmly. They stank, not just of bear grease and sweat, but of something else… something familiar.
Then, something heavy landed on the herdstone and W’soran spun, fangs exposed. Ushoran, his features human and handsome, crouched on the spur of stone. He was clad in heavy furs and leather armour, and his hair was bound in a thick lock. A simple gold band encircled his head.
‘When my scouts reported that there was thunder among the trees, I half-expected it to be you, old man,’ Ushoran said, dropping down from his perch. He carried no weapon, but he’d never truly needed one. He gently touched one of the dead men and he sighed. ‘Poor Garek,’ he murmured, closing the dead man’s staring eyes. ‘I wish you had accepted my gift, my friend.’
W’soran said nothing. His mind whirled, calculating. So this was where the Lord of Masks had decided to make his empire. Coincidence, or… no; W’soran didn’t believe in coincidences. Ushoran was here for the same reason he was. Something had called him, had perhaps, been calling him since the last time W’soran had seen him. Ushoran ignored him as he cut each of the bodies free and laid them gently on the ground. When he had finished, he looked at his men and said, ‘Gather wood. We will commit them to the fire, and lay the bodies of their killers at their feet, as befitting the sons of Strigu.’ He turned to W’soran. ‘So, old monster… you have no idea how glad we are to see you.’
‘We?’ W’soran inquired, his good eye narrowing. A length of cold metal dropped onto his shoulder, its edge pressed lightly to the side of his neck.
‘We,’ Abhorash said.
Crookback Mountain
(Year -263 Imperial Calendar)
W’soran cursed as the hooves of his steed slipped and slid on the ice encrusting the rocky path leading to the entrance to his citadel. The wind howled through the crags, and sheets of snow and frozen rain pelted him as he hunched forward in his saddle, his tattered cloak providing little protection. He did not feel the cold, but the snow and ice made it hard to move and even harder to see. Winter in the mountains was never pleasant, even for a being such as him.
The difficulty in reaching his citadel had only added to the pile of steadily building frustrations that threatened, at times, to crush him under. It had all been going so well, and, to an extent, it still was. His army maintained its position, and had thrown back a number of Strigoi assaults. Palisades had been erected and trees cleared. The temporary camp had become a fortified bulwark, a wedge of influence in enemy territory. He was forced to trust that Ullo and the others could hold it, especially given the lack of reinforcements.
Vaal the Thirst had not rejoined them. His forces had been ambushed by unknown enemies in the hills to the west. Lukas, the other Strigoi outrider, had found Vaal’s head on a spear, standing amidst the detritus of his forces. Lukas’s own force had been harried all the way back to the main body of the army, attacked by small parties of the dead. W’soran recognised Neferata’s handiwork, though not a single quicksilver killer had been seen. There was something going on in the west, something she didn’t want him to see. Perhaps she was simply shielding the flanks of the tribes of the lowlands, whose barbarous warbands were streaming into Strigoi territory with a relentless savagery. Or perhaps she was finally mobilising her own forces for the final battle. She could smell the scent of Ushoran’s weakness as well as he could, though she had no hope of defeating Nagash in a direct confrontation.
You had your chance, witch. It’s my turn, he thought sourly. Or, it would have been, had he not been dragged from the forefront of battle by the negligence of his supposedly capable castellan. Melkhior had much to answer for. He had sent no reinforcements, and the citadel was woefully undefended, as evidenced by the lack of any sentries accosting him upon his arrival. For a moment, he ruefully contemplated the lack of exterior fortifications. He had never considered them necessary, despite Melkhior’s protestations to the contrary. There were defences within, and strong ones at that, but he had never thought it necessary to add any to the slopes of the mountain. Why advertise the citadel’s presence, after all?
It wasn’t only a matter of men and materials; the proceeds from the mines had dried to a trickle and the mineral wealth that had bought him the loyalty of certain tribes and served to bribe others into inactivity was threatened. It was all his agents could do to keep the hillmen of the Vaults from attacking the Draesca while their king was away. If the gold stopped coming, they would attack and a third of his army would melt away as Chown took his men home to defend his kingdom.
Everything hinged on the mines and the reinforcements. He had thrown everything into this attack, had planned and prepared for years for this moment, and now it was all teetering on the edge of a knife held by a dithering, twitching fool. He angrily scrubbed snow from his shoulders. He’d known Melkhior was too unreliable to serve him in battle, but had hoped that he’d prove an adequate major domo. Instead, he was beginning to regret ever having bothered to turn the idiot Strigoi in the first place. What a waste of blood and power that was turning out to be…