she had learned her lessons well. And from Ushoran, though she would never admit it, she had learned the art of hiding in plain sight. Thus, when they at last reached the tomb-hall where the Vaults lay, they entered surreptitiously and soundlessly.
With an abominable speed, the vampires crawled along the ceiling, slithering out of the passage and up among the support buttresses and rock formations of the tomb-hall beyond. There was no darkness in the hall, save that which clung to the ceiling, and dwarfs, much like men, rarely looked up.
The hall housing the Vaults was immense, stretching for what seemed like miles. The great doors that marked the Vaults themselves were only slightly smaller than the gates to Karaz Bryn itself, and even more ornate. Spread across the centre of both gates was emblazoned the scowling face of one of the dwarf gods, though at that size it was hard to tell which. Radiating outwards from that glaring visage was an intricate mandala of words and images and symbols, none of which made any sense to Neferata. Perhaps it was a recounting of the deeds of all of those interred within, or of their clans.
Regardless of the purpose of the decorations which adorned them, the doors themselves radiated the same implacable menace which marked the gates of the Silver Pinnacle. The closer they drew, the more the presence pressed against them.
‘Neferata…’ Naaima hissed. Neferata stopped and craned her head back to see her followers huddling some distance behind her as if they were rooted to the spot. And even farther back, the spirit host clustered around the top of the archway that marked the entrance to the hall. Immediately, Neferata cursed herself for a fool. Of course the dwarfs would have some form of protection on their tombs! She turned back to the Vaults, squinting. Her flesh crawled at the thought of drawing any closer, but there was no other choice. To turn back now was to admit defeat.
‘I will go. When I give the signal, attack,’ Neferata called back softly to her followers.
‘And what is the signal?’ Naaima hissed in reply.
Neferata smiled. ‘You’ll know it when you see it.’ With that, she continued on, not stopping until she hung over the gates like a cave-lizard. As she crawled, she watched the ceremonial guards below. They wore ornate heavy armour, and wielded two-handed axes. One was smoking a pipe and the stink of the weed within caused her nose to wrinkle in disgust. There were a half-dozen of them ranged out before the doors. That the dwarfs would spare able warriors on guarding such a place when their hold was under attack told her how highly they valued the tombs of the dead.
She froze as the scrape of boots on stone sounded. More guards, these dressed in battle-stained armour and smelling of bloodshed, strode towards the Vault, surrounding a familiar robed figure. Abruptly Neferata recalled the dwarf woman who had stood beside Borri on his throne. What was she doing here?
The leader of the group before the Vaults obviously wondered the same, as he barked a gruff query. ‘Who goes there?’
‘It is I, Dromble… Hilga,’ the priestess said in a clear timbre. Sound carried easily in the vast space of the hall.
‘Priestess,’ the tomb-warden said, hastily combing at his immaculate beard with his hand. His men followed suit, instinctively preening before the dwarf woman. ‘You honour us with your presence.’
‘As you honour our ancestors with your devotion to duty,’ Hilga said.
‘But why are you here? Surely it is not safe for you down here. Several of those zanguzaz are loose down in the depths.’ At the word, the priestess’s escort looked around warily, clutching their weapons tightly.
‘Nowhere is safe, I am afraid. And I am to ensure that the vaults of our honoured dead are proof against the foul magics of our enemy,’ the priestess said, stepping briskly past him and placing her hands against the doors. ‘In our last war with the men of Mourkain, they dragged the dead from the ground, both theirs and ours. ‘
‘Uzkular,’ a guard muttered.
Hilga nodded. ‘Aye, they wring motion from the dead and I intend to see that our dead stay safely and honourably in their tombs, as the gods intended.’ She waved a hand, and a faint glow crept through the contours of the mandala.
The guards shifted uncomfortably, obviously unused to seeing such things. Neferata crept closer, her flesh prickling as the priestess began to speak. A warm glow spread outwards