‘There are more dead here than in the entirety of the world,’ Layla whispered.
The quality of the air had changed as well. There was a verminous smell to things now, a sort of musk that clung to the ancient support timbers and the bones that littered the sides of the tunnel. There were strange marks that glowed faintly on the walls. Neferata touched one and felt a tingle in her fingers. She grunted as she realised that some of the green stone had been used like chalk here, but as to the nature of the mark she couldn’t say. It was unlike any writing she had ever seen.
The ghouls had drawn together in a huddle, their yellow eyes darting around. They grimaced and whimpered. Morath looked at them pityingly. He flicked his fingers and the beasts suddenly loped away, back the way they had come, running as if their lives depended on it.
‘That was foolish, necromancer,’ Neferata said. ‘We need guides.’
‘And blood,’ Layla said.
‘You would not want to drink the blood of anything which lurks in this place,’ Morath said. ‘And we need no guides, not now. Like calls to like, in the sour places.’ Morath dropped to his haunches and dug through the closest pile of bones, extracting a nearly mummified hand. A thin shroud of flesh clung to the age-browned bones and Morath hissed in satisfaction.
He held up the hand and blew a soft breath across it. The fingers stiffened and straightened with an ugly clicking sound. Morath held his hand flat over the fingertips and a burst of puffball light emerged from his palm like poison being drawn from a wound. He winced as the light split and settled on the fingertips, as if the bones were candles. He held it up by its wrist stump and the light slid greasily across the rocks of the tunnel walls.
‘What is that?’ Neferata said.
‘A light to guide us in the darkness,’ Morath said. ‘Normally, we use them to find hidden barrows and tombs. The hand is drawn towards the largest concentration of the dark energies which we weave together to raise the dead and in this place, it will find Nagash’s throne room much quicker than the shoddy ancestral memories of our ghoulish hosts.’ He raised the corpse-light, his face pinched with strain. Neferata and the others followed. The faint skittering sounds followed them, though at a distance. It was as if their mysterious pursuers were travelling in a roundabout fashion.
The mines of Nagashizzar proved to be as vast as Morath had warned. Though the necromancer swore that they were travelling in the correct direction, Neferata found herself wondering whether they were going up or down. Time seemed to have little meaning in the ageless, suffocating confines of the mines and days blended into weeks. For Neferata and the other vampires, this was no hardship. They could go months without nourishment, though they preferred to feed as often as possible. Morath, however, was another story.
The necromancer had the lean form of a man on the edge of starvation, and he only grew thinner during their time in the dark. Part of that, Neferata knew, was due to the spell. Keeping his grisly candelabrum lit for so long seemed to take most of his strength, and they were forced to help him keep up more than once. He had brought supplies, but those were exhausted soon enough. Soon, the three vampires were forced to catch the fat black rats that scurried through the dark tunnels for Morath to feast on. A number of the vermin had mutations – extra limbs, scales or bone spurs – but the necromancer devoured them regardless, chewing the foul meat as if it were the greatest delicacy.
Every rock and tunnel seemed to pull at Neferata’s very core as they travelled, sucking her down into a maelstrom of darkness that only intensified the longer they walked. It was like a trap, and she was the rat who had walked blindly into it. To distract herself, she wondered what was occurring in her absence in Mourkain. Everything now balanced on the sharp end. An action taken in haste might tip the whole affair one way or another and unravel every strand of her carefully crafted web. She should not have left. But the crown, and what it implied, was too great an opportunity to pass up.
She needed it. It had called her to Mourkain to claim it. She was a