‘Blessing in disguise,’ he growled.
‘But why are we running? Surely your might is equal to his,’ Melkhior said.
‘Perhaps, but now is not the time to test that theory,’ W’soran snarled. ‘Not with both Abhorash and Neferata under his thumb. No, no we must flee — we must find a place from which to observe and plot anew. We must-’
Suddenly, a series of howls echoed through the lair. W’soran stiffened. ‘Damnation,’ he hissed. He had stationed ghouls at the approaches to his lair, to keep watch just in case Ushoran wasn’t quite as distracted as he appeared. Those howls meant that that was sadly the case.
It looked like they would be fighting their way out of Mourkain after all…
Crookback Mountain
(Year -262 Imperial Calendar)
In the end, it had been easy enough to escape.
Ushoran had let him flee. There had been no mocking laughter, no pursuit, merely satisfied silence, as if some long-argued point had been proven. He had fled the pyramid, ignoring the fate of his commanders, allies and acolytes, ignoring the battle that still raged. Abhorash had seen him, and had grown even paler, his stony face settling into an expression of resigned sadness that stung W’soran more than any blade or mockery.
He had fled the city, wreathed in ghostly scarabs, hurtling himself away from the malignant enormity that had almost claimed him. In the days that followed, some of his forces caught up with him. Barely a third of his army had remained, and that third had disintegrated by steady increments as he made his way back to the dubious sanctuary of Crookback Mountain.
Ullo was dead, he thought, though he couldn’t be sure. Abhorash had killed him, or perhaps Walak or Morath, or maybe he too had fled. Dhrox and Throttlehand had led a fighting withdrawal, only grudgingly giving ground as they were forced out of the city. Voloch was dead, and his wights had borne his body out of the city, the Draesca trailing behind them. Voloch II, his oldest son, had already assumed the helm, and it was only the magics within it and him that had enabled the Draesca to escape the field. They had made for the west and the Vaults. Dhrox and Throttlehand had gone west as well, with their followers.
W’soran’s acolytes were dead, torn apart by the vengeful Strigoi. It was only his concentration that kept his army together; and day by day, it slipped a bit more and he left a trail of rotting body-parts and bones in his force’s wake. W’soran rode no steed, skeletal or otherwise, but instead stumbled through the hills and bowers, cloak pulled tight, his gaze directed within, rather than without. He did not notice as his forces collapsed or wandered away as his control of them slipped and faded. The great bats were gone, and the spirit-hosts had dissipated.
When he at last reached the passes that marked the entrance to his demesnes, he was accompanied only by what remained of his bodyguard — a dozen wights. The wights neither complained nor spoke, and it was not his will alone that kept them animated. The rites required to permanently anchor their spirits to their bodies had been an exhausting process, but one he soon found to have been worth the effort.
The forts that guarded the passes had never been repaired or garrisoned after Ushoran’s attack. There had been no reason, and as he picked his way through the snow-encrusted ruins, he cursed himself for his lack of foresight. Not just in regard to the garrisons, about everything. He had been a blind fool. A starving wolf, swallowing tainted meat.
In that moment of confrontation, he had seen himself for the fool he was. He had stalled and prevaricated for centuries, avoiding that moment, comforting himself with reassurances that it was all according to plan. But there had been no plan. Not really, not truly. Not one worth the name. He had not been buying time — he had merely been putting off the inevitable.
He had thought himself a player in a grand game, when, in reality, he had been nothing more than a pawn, played off by one side against the other. He had been used to clear the field of obstacles — Vorag, the rebel Strigoi… Ushoran.
He had been made a tool.
W’soran raised his arms and howled as a frigid wind curled through the ruin. Dark magic crackled through him as his rage built, warring with fear and self-loathing for control of his mind. He had been wielded deftly and precisely, aimed to strike a blow. Even now, he could not say who had aimed him, and at whom the blow had been aimed. Had Neferata and Abhorash conspired to send him against Nagash? Or had Ushoran used him to accomplish some indefinable purge of his own people, and thus pave the way for his eventual victory? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had been used — he, who had fancied himself the master planner, the paramount schemer, had merely been a cog in someone else’s scheme.
Panting with anger, he peered through the shattered gates of the fort. Beyond the pass, the jagged, curving fang of Crookback Mountain rose through the mist and snow in the distance, beckoning him on. The safety that it promised was only temporary at best, he knew. He had been allowed to flee, but he would not — could not — be allowed to live. The point had been proven, but he was still dangerous, he could still be a thorn, if he so chose.
No, they would not let him live. He had to flee. He had to seek sanctuary elsewhere, he had to find another protector… perhaps Vorag still lived, somewhere in the east. If he could reach the Bloodytooth, if he could pass the blame off onto other shoulders, he might — what?
‘What?’ he muttered. ‘Renew the fight? Why? What is to be done? What now for you, W’soran of Mahrak? What now to strive for, eh?’
He snarled in frustration. Sorcerous bolts erupted from his hands, striking the remains of a bunkhouse and a sagging, half-shattered palisade. He howled again, unleashing his anger on the ruined mountain fortress as his wights watched silently. Steam billowed into the air as his magics melted the snow and blasted the rocks to slag.
‘What now for poor betrayed W’soran, eh?’ he roared. ‘Will he return to his citadel to await the coming of his enemies? What would be the point?’ He whirled and gesticulated to his wights. ‘Answer me that, eh? The world has become a jar, and defeat is the stake that pierces my old heart!’
‘So melodramatic, old monster,’ a voice giggled. The words bounced from rock to rock and seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. W’soran spun about, his good eye blazing.
‘So,’ he spat, ‘I should have known. That is to be my end, is it? Used and discarded? Is there no grace left in the world, no honour or mercy?’
It was a woman’s voice that had called out to him, and familiar, though he could not put a name to it. But he knew what it meant. Whether she had engineered his defeat or not, Neferata had obviously decided that it was time to take him off the board. Now that the titans had had their duel, the handmaiden had come to remove the detritus from the field.
‘Funny words coming from a serpent like you,’ another voice said, laughing. The snow was falling harder now, and the wind moaned as it rushed through the ruin. Shapes moved across the shattered palisade. High-pitched laughter scraped his ears.
‘Maybe he lies even to himself, eh?’ a third voice chuckled, too closely. W’soran twisted, expecting an attack. But none came. Quicksilver shapes moved around him, almost floating across the driving snow.
‘Twist and turn as you might, old monster, but this is one trap you cannot escape,’ the first woman said in a sing-song voice.
‘Trap?’ W’soran muttered. ‘What trap — what are you talking about? Reveal yourselves!’
Something hissed, at his elbow. A pale shape lunged upwards, bursting from the snow, serrated blades angled for W’soran’s heart. He reacted instinctively, catching the blades and bringing his fist down on his attacker’s head with skull-crunching force.