The only forces W’soran had brought with him were his bodyguard of wights. The dead chieftains looked about slowly as they rode into the crooked cavern that marked the entrance to the mountain and acted as the forecourt of the citadel. Scorch marks marred the cavern walls and debris covered the rough floor — bits of bone and armour, and patches of melted rock.
Something had happened.
Perhaps reinforcements hadn’t come because there were none to send. W’soran growled deep in his throat. What foolishness had his acolyte perpetrated?
Eyes were on him, and he brought his dead steed to a halt in the centre of the forecourt. He looked around. There were no torches lit, no burning skulls to greet him. Leather brushed against rock. W’soran’s gaze rotated. Thousands of bats clustered on the ceiling of the cavern, their tiny bright eyes staring down at him. Hairy bodies squirmed against one another in a living carpet of teeth and wings, and he wondered at their number. There had always been bats in the deeper reaches of the mountain, but never so many, he thought.
He grunted and swung out of his saddle. His wights followed suit, drawing their weapons even as their feet touched the floor. W’soran didn’t bother to draw his scimitar. He looked to the wide flat steps that curved up into the mountain. The slap of leather soles on stone sounded dully out of the darkness. A moment later a cloaked shape stood at the summit of the steps, glaring down at them. W’soran frowned.
‘What is this? No happy greeting from student to master? No cry of welcome, no reception befitting my status?’ he called out harshly. There was no reply. Irritated, W’soran raised his hand and a soft corona of sickly light formed above his upturned palm. Light washed over the cavern and the shape at the summit threw up a hand to cover its eyes.
‘I expect an answer when I ask a question, Melkhior,’ W’soran said. ‘Or have you forgotten all of your duties, rather than just a few?’
‘Master, is that you?’ Melkhior rasped, peering down at them.
‘Who else would it be, you idiot?’
Melkhior visibly hesitated. W’soran’s good eye widened slightly as he caught sight of the creatures behind Melkhior. He thought they were ghouls at first, but then saw that they weren’t alive, in the traditional sense. Stained wrappings were wound round their blistered and scarred flesh, and their faces were a gruesome blend of man, beast and corpse. They seemed to be caught between life and death, and they reeked of wrongness. Their mottled flesh blended easily with the darkness and they crept forward around Melkhior in a protective manner. W’soran felt a sting of pleasure at the thought that Melkhior had created them. Perhaps he wasn’t as much of an idiot as he seemed.
‘I see you have been keeping up with your studies, at least,’ he said.
Melkhior’s hand fell to the flat skull of the closest of the beasts, and he stroked it idly. He seemed to relax slightly. ‘There have been… incidents, in your absence, master.’
‘So I see,’ W’soran said, gesturing about him. ‘What has happened?’
‘The ratkin have returned,’ Melkhior said bluntly.
W’soran hissed. He looked about him. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the signs of collapsed tunnels in the walls and floor of the cavern. He had half-expected it, but not so soon. Not now, when he couldn’t deal with them as they deserved. ‘When?’ he asked, starting up the stairs.
‘Months ago,’ Melkhior said. He watched his master approach, a strange expression on his face. ‘But their scouts infiltrated the mountain a year ago or more. We didn’t detect them until too late.’ He hesitated. ‘They freed your… pet.’
‘Iskar is still alive?’ W’soran asked, bemused. ‘Fascinating, I’d have thought he’d have died in my absence.’ Then Melkhior’s words fully sank in and he snarled. ‘Freed him? How, when?’
There was another hesitation. Then, Melkhior said, ‘Two years ago.’
‘Two…’ W’soran repeated and shook his head.
‘They snuck in and destroyed the laboratories. They freed him then. At first, I thought he’d died, but we never found a carcass…’ He stopped and shrank back as W’soran glared at him.
‘My laboratory,’ W’soran said, his hands clenching. Fury built in him. ‘What of the vaults?’ In the aftermath of the first attempt on his life, W’soran had realised that his most valuable treasures — the carefully hoarded books and scrolls of dark design upon which his power was based — were vulnerable to theft or destruction, as they were. They had been copied again and again by his acolytes, and it was true that if they were lost, the knowledge in them could be recovered, but there was a malevolent power in those original manuscripts that could not be replaced. Not wishing to risk it, he had overseen the construction of a specially prepared vault, guarded around the clock by unsleeping guardians.
‘Safe, master, I swear,’ Melkhior said quickly. ‘They are under guard day and night. I created the perfect guardian to replace those destroyed by the skaven. Come, come! I will show you!’ He spun about and started up the steps, his creations scuttling after him. W’soran watched him flee, and then, more slowly, followed.
The citadel bore mute testimony to Melkhior’s assertions. W’soran had no real cause to doubt his acolyte’s word, but he knew better than to trust him. He knew better than to trust any man, servant or no. Nevertheless, the citadel showed signs of conflict that put him in mind of those early months just after their arrival, when they had battled the skaven for control of the mountain. He saw patrols of battered skeletons, much repaired and moving slowly. Rotting zombies crafted from orcs and men guarded the entrances to the side caverns, and he saw more of Melkhior’s creations prowling the side-tunnels and darkened ledges. But not many — when he had marched for Strigos, Crookback Mountain had echoed with the sounds of industry and marching dead men. Now, an eerie, empty silence hung about the place and his every step seemed to echo and re-echo.
‘Where are the legions I left for you, Melkhior? Where are your fellow acolytes?’ he asked.
‘Dead — the final death,’ Melkhior said, not looking at his master. ‘The skaven returned with deadly weapons, master… weapons that spat sorcerous fire and monstrous creatures that tore vampires apart as if they were nothing more than men. You cannot resurrect ash and char. I have… had to make do.’
‘All of them, Melkhior?’ W’soran pressed.
‘Those who did not die in the destruction of the laboratory fell in battle,’ Melkhior said. He paused and glanced over his shoulder at W’soran. ‘I am your only remaining apprentice, master.’
‘All save those who accompanied me to war, yes. How unfortunate,’ W’soran murmured. Melkhior was lying. He knew it as surely as he knew that the other vampire had gone mad. He could smell that madness seeping from Melkhior’s pores. W’soran recognised it, for he had smelled the same stink on Ushoran and on Neferata — the madness of certainty, of a single overwhelming design. If W’soran had felt even the slightest amount of affection for his acolytes, he might have been angrier. As it was, he only required one to see to the citadel — if Melkhior had elected himself to be that one, fine.
Melkhior appeared not to have heard W’soran’s insult. ‘But the citadel remains in our hands, master. I have thrown back the skaven every time they have attacked, no matter the losses. I have scoured their old warrens with armies made from their own dead and I have filled the deep tunnels with my eyes and ears…’ Here, he gestured upwards. W’soran looked up and saw more bats, all watching him. ‘I have done all that you asked of me, master.’
‘Except supply me with reinforcements,’ W’soran said. He stopped and turned. ‘I would see my laboratory,’ he said, stepping through an archway.
Melkhior hurried after him. ‘It is dangerous, master. The abn-i-khat has tainted everything, and your experiments-’ he began, reaching for W’soran, who caused him to freeze in place with a glare. As Melkhior shrank back, W’soran turned back to the great doors that marked where his laboratory had once been.