the hold, and for a moment, just a moment, it seemed as if they might be enough.
King Borri stood amidst his bodyguard. He still held Razek’s axe and he gesticulated with it in the direction of the relentless legions stalking towards the dwarf ranks. Borri was as canny as his son, and the dwarfs of the Silver Pinnacle had fought the dead before. As Neferata watched, a dozen dwarfs ran forwards at Borri’s command, carrying bubbling cauldrons full of pitch. They slung them into the advancing dead. A moment later, crossbow bolts with burning tips were fired over the heads of Borri and his men.
The wide expanse of floor leading to the Deeping Stair exploded into flame. By itself, it wouldn’t have stopped the dead, but it did slow them down enough for the miniature catapults that had been dragged into position on the lower landing to be of use sooner rather than later. Irregular chunks of rock were flung into the air and where they struck, they left a trail of splintered bones and gaps in the ranks.
Morath winced at each impact. Neferata looked up at the necromancer as she reached his side, where he was surrounded by a grave-guard of skeletal horsemen clad in rotting leather and bronze armour that had gone green with age. ‘Pull them back,’ she said. ‘Between the heat and the rocks, the barrow-dead are too vulnerable.’
‘Then what do you suggest we send in their place, harsh language?’ Morath said, not looking at her. The strain of controlling so many dead was plainly visible on his face. Neferata caught sight of Naaima on his other side.
‘No, but there are a wealth of troops they might not be so eager to bounce rocks off,’ she countered, sweeping a hand out to indicate the dwarf dead. Morath blinked. Then he smiled weakly.
‘Ushoran was right to send you,’ he said. His smile faded. ‘I–’ he began, but she waved him to silence.
‘Raise them, necromancer. Set brother against brother. Let’s give our hosts something worthy to record in their pathetic book of complaints, shall we?’
Morath squared his shoulders and took a breath. Neferata felt him pluck the strands of dark magic that clustered near the bodies of the slain with his mind. He raised a hand, his fingers hooked like arthritic claws. Morath had changed much over the past few years. Only traces of his previous handsomeness remained; he was a shrivelled wreck now, but more mighty than he had been. With W’soran’s flight, the burden of Mourkain’s magical needs had fallen on Morath’s shoulders. He had kept the kingdom running, but only just.
In comparison, bringing the newly dead to their feet was as nothing. The dwarfs stirred, ruined mail scratching across stone. She inhaled the strange sickly-sweet scent of over-ripened life. Bloody fingers twitched and heels drummed on the floor. Eyelids peeled back from poached-egg eyes and as one, with a groan, the dead sat up. Gripping their weapons with slack necessity, the dead dwarfs turned as a mass towards Borri’s battleline.
The dirge, when it came, was something of a surprise: a collective song of mourning, slipping from the mouths of every dwarf still breathing. Neferata watched as the dwarfs faced their dead kin, singing their sad slow song, and she felt a moment of what might have been respect. There was no fear there, only sadness. The song rose in volume until the very stones seemed to reverberate with its rhythm.
The passage of the dead beat out the flames. Still, beards and braids caught alight, wreathing the zombies in halos of flame as they stumbled towards their former companions in a grim parody of martial discipline. Neferata heard the Strigoi howling in mockery and disgust filled her. This was a necessity, not a pleasure. In another, better world, the dawi would have been her allies. She glanced at Morath, noting the flat expression on his face.
The necromancer liked this no better than she, she knew. They were both prisoners of Ushoran’s madness, though Morath had chosen that fate willingly. She had offered him a place, and he had turned away out of loyalty to an ideal. ‘I could have been your queen,’ she murmured. Morath looked at her.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, necromancer. Stay back and leave the fighting to those with the thirst for it.’ Neferata trotted after the dwarf dead. She drank in the swirling winds of dark magic as she moved, using it to abate the thirst she felt. She felt her features stretch and sharpen and