He could feel the malignant will within it, beckoning him closer. Ushoran was as eager for this confrontation as he was. He had never denied himself an opportunity to prove his superiority over his followers, flaunting his might the way a foppish courtier might flaunt a fine cloak. ‘I am coming, old friend,’ W’soran growled. ‘We go forward. If we must drown this city in death to take it, so be it!’
Ullo and Arpad shared a look and then both Strigoi grinned. ‘You aren’t half the coward Melkhior made you out to be, sorcerer,’ Arpad said.
W’soran ignored the backhanded compliment. Overhead, the zombie-dragon shrieked again. The war machines he’d brought continued to fire from outside the city, hurling rocks and debris against the walls and into the city itself, and the street trembled beneath his feet. He could hear the clangour of weapons from around him, as his grave-legions fought against Mourkain’s defenders. Over the tops of nearby roofs, he caught sight of a bone-giant, a heavy howdah on its broad shoulders. Skeletal archers fired down as the bone-giant stomped through the streets. His acolytes could keep the army functioning, while he turned his attentions to more important matters.
Even if they couldn’t, it wouldn’t matter. His army had done its job, and well. It had delivered him to the time and place he required and whether it survived or was destroyed now was of no consequence to him. Even Melkhior, squatting in his tenuous citadel, was of no more use, and good thing as well, for the flow of wealth and reinforcements had dried up swiftly.
The clopping of hooves caught his attention and he and the other vampires turned to see Voloch, new king of the Draesca and lord of the Grave-Host, and his wights approaching, accompanied by several renegade Strigoi, including the bulky brute known as Dhrox and the whipcord-thin lunatic known as Throttlehand. Voloch saluted with his double-bitted axe. Chown had succumbed to the helm’s poisonous touch a year earlier, but Voloch was easily his match. Now Chown had joined his predecessor Shull amongst their descendant’s bodyguard.
‘We have breached the walls, oh Speaker for the Dead,’ Voloch said. ‘Our forces stream into Morgheim, but they face stiff resistance. We must break the enemy, and soon, for our forces are stretched thin.’
‘Abhorash’s Hand is scattered,’ Throttlehand rasped, stroking his throat with an armoured claw. ‘They’re holding what they’ve got, but they can’t mount an organised defence, not without the Great Red Dragon holding their hands.’
‘Crush ’em,’ Dhrox rumbled as he smacked his hairy paws together. His lumpen features were covered in dried gore and combined the worst aspects of bat and wolf. ‘Smash ’em and suck the pulp.’
‘I’d say Dhrox speaks for all of us,’ Ullo growled.
‘Good,’ W’soran said. ‘We will push straight through the city, like jamming a dagger into a heart. Let nothing stand in our way.’
They began moving forward, slowly at first, and then picking up speed. They flooded the streets, smashing aside barricades and driving back the men holding them. Swarms of bats flapped ahead of them, attacking the defenders, blinding and harrying them. Voloch’s mounted wights thundered ahead of the slower skeletons and vaulted the barricades, followed by over-eager Strigoi like Dhrox. W’soran’s eyes strayed continually to the pyramid. Ushoran had not shown himself, and W’soran knew that he was waiting in his throne room. Nagash too had refused to bestir himself, until the last moment.
The human defenders fell back, street by street, as the dead moved deeper into the city. Until, at last, the largest group of defenders made their stand in the great plaza before the pyramid. Ushoran’s personal guard was there, and Gashnag, who rode at their head, and Morath, as well. Morath stood surrounded by the newly-risen dead — men and women, soldiers and otherwise, had been jerked from death’s bower to defend their home. The zombies moved forward slowly, shuffling at Morath’s gesture. W’soran noted with some amusement that Morath looked unhappy with the prospect of commanding the corpses of his people. ‘Too much of the man in you, and not enough monster,’ W’soran murmured. ‘You’ll learn though, if you survive.’
The two sides faced one another across the plaza. The space was immense, bounded on its sides by great columns covered in carved skulls and topped by massive braziers that still burned despite the siege, casting their light across the plaza. Spears were lowered and arrows notched as the two groups sized one another up.
But, before a single arrow could be fired, a terrifying scream rocked the city. W’soran looked up and his good eye widened as he saw his zombie-dragon twisting through the air, falling towards the city. He could feel the dark magic that animated it fading. Impossibly, improbably, Abhorash was beating it.
‘By Strigu’s bones,’ Ullo murmured, looking up. ‘He can’t have won — he can’t!’
‘He has,’ W’soran said flatly.
The zombie-dragon smashed into the plaza like a shrieking comet. Two of the columns exploded at the point of impact, showering the surrounding streets and the plaza with a hail of broken stone. As the smoke began to clear, both sides faced each other warily as they waited to see what pulled itself out of the crater now gouged into the street.
With aching slowness the writhing coils of the corpse-dragon stilled, as its false life fled at last. A tall shape rose up and iron sang down, ringing as it struck the rock of the street.
Then Abhorash stepped through the smoke, dragging the beast’s head behind him by one splintered horn. His armour hung from him in tatters and his marble flesh was stained black and striped red, but the fire in his eyes burned undimmed. He had lost his helm, and some of his hair where the dragon’s breath had scoured his flesh. He released the head, letting it flop to the ground, and reached up to strip the ragged remains of his cuirass and pauldrons from his torso, tossing them aside as if they were of no more consequence than the bloody wounds that were already congealing on his mighty frame.
W’soran cursed himself for a fool. He had suspected that Abhorash would triumph, but he had hoped that the fight would carry him far from Mourkain. Instead, it was as if some dark power had dropped one of the greatest obstacles to his plan directly into his path.
Others seemed to feel similarly. Arpad cursed, and before either Ullo or W’soran could stop him, he darted forward, moving like lightning. He sprang towards Abhorash and vaulted up, blade extended. Almost casually, Abhorash struck out, shattering his opponent’s weapon and then, in a reversal so quick that not even the watching vampires could follow it, slashing upwards, catching Arpad as he descended. The latter didn’t even have time to scream as his body was bisected, split in two from thigh to shoulder. The two halves fell to the ground wetly and Abhorash flicked his blade, cleaning it of blood. He met W’soran’s shocked gaze and inclined his head. ‘Take him alive,’ he rumbled.
Fear flooded W’soran, washing away his earlier anger. He stepped back, and his spectral scarabs clicked and hummed softly as they swarmed about him, ready to yank him from peril.
He forced the fear down, driving it back into its hole. Nagash — no, Ushoran, not Nagash, Nagash was dead, crown or not — wanted him — fine. He was here, regardless. ‘Ullo,’ W’soran growled.
‘He’s mine,’ Ullo snarled and bounded towards Abhorash. As if that had been the signal, the battle was joined as both sides surged forward. W’soran found himself locked in combat once more with Gashnag, and the Strigoi seemed to have no intention of allowing him to gain enough room to use his sorcery. Instead, Gashnag hemmed him in, his pale features split in a snarl.
‘You heard the Dragon, sorcerer,’ Gashnag said, slashing low. W’soran stepped back, knocking several men sprawling. ‘Surrender yourself to us, and perhaps Lord Ushoran will spare you the worst of his planned torments!’