columns. They lay everywhere, their segments as large as boulders. She gave Kyrie a crooked smile.
"We have marble. We have tools. We have three statues who will work hard." She patted Kyrie's helmet. "They will build more."
Would it work? she wondered. It seemed crazy, but... this whole war was crazy. She lifted a hammer and chisel and shook the snow off them. She approached the statue of the king, her ancestor, and placed the tools in his hands. The statue's fingers closed around them, and he stared at her with stone eyes.
"For years, you lay hidden in ruin," she said to him. "For years, Requiem lay fallen. Today her stones will live. Today you will build brothers and sisters. The fabled columns of Requiem lie smashed now. We cannot rebuild them, but we can raise them to life. Carve them into men and women. Carve them into warriors who can reclaim our glory."
The statue stood still. Agnus Dei exhaled slowly, feeling like a deflated bellows. He doesn't hear, she thought. Or he doesn't understand. He can move, but not help us.
She turned to Kyrie. "I don't know how Dies Irae commands them. I don't know how—"
Kyrie's eyes widened and his mouth fell open. "Look."
Agnus Dei spun around. The stone king was walking through the snow, steps slow and creaking. He approached a piece of fallen column. It was larger than him. The statue stood over it, tools in hands.
"Go on," Agnus Dei whispered. "You know what to do."
The statue turned to look at her. Agnus Dei stared back. Light filled the king's eyes—starlight. The statue turned back to the marble and began to carve.
Agnus Dei felt a lump in her throat. She put an arm around Kyrie and kissed his cheek.
"For the first time in years," she whispered, "Requiem will have an army."
DIES IRAE
He stepped onto the parapet, stared down to the courtyard, and beheld an army of rot and worm.
"Mimics!" he shouted and raised his arms. "Soon you will feast on weredragon flesh!"
They howled, shrieked, and slammed swords against shields. Pus dripped from their maws. Maggots swarmed across them. Congealed blood covered their bodies like boils.
My children, Dies Irae thought. My lovelies.
"Hail Dies Irae!" one mimic cried, a creature with six arms and blades for hands.
"We will feast!" cried another, a creature with a bloated head like a rotting watermelon.
A thousand screamed below. Their stench rose to fill Dies Irae's nostrils. He breathed it in lovingly. It was the smell of dead weredragons, of victory.
"The weredragons murdered your brothers," he called down to them. "With cowardly fire, they burned all mimics who drew near."
They hissed and screamed. They banged their blades, and their teeth gnashed.
"But you are not mere scouts!" Dies Irae cried over the din. "You are an army. You are an army bred to kill weredragons."
Their howls rose. They waved their weapons and screamed for blood.
"You will eat their bodies! You will suck up their entrails. But bring me their heads. I will sew their heads onto the bodies of women, so that you may take them, and hurt them, and plant your seed inside them. They will be your slaves."
The mimics screamed and drooled. Some dropped their shields and began rubbing themselves, moaning and screaming. Dies Irae watched and smiled.
"Who do you serve?" he cried.
"Dies Irae! Hail Dies Irae!" Their voices shook the ruins.
Smiling thinly, Dies Irae turned and stared at the mimic who stood beside him on the parapets. His most beautiful mimic. The crown jewel of his army. His proudest creation.
"And you, Teeth, will lead them," he said.
The mimic stared back, bared its sharp teeth, and hissed. Its burly, hairy arms reached out and flexed. Centipedes crawled over its stilt-like legs. Dies Irae touched its cheek.
"You are my sweet killer," he said. "Built fresh. Of young bodies. Young freakish bodies. You are strong. You will lead. You will kill."
It snarled. A worm crawled between its teeth. "Yes, master."
Dies Irae smiled when he remembered building this mimic. The two boys had come to him with a fresh body, a friend of theirs, one of their gang. The dead one had long, hairy arms like an ape's. The leader had sharp teeth and a powerful jaw. The third one was stupid, but had long legs made for running, for towering over enemies.
The Rot Gang, that was their name, he remembered. An appropriate name.
He plucked a worm from Teeth's head and crushed it between his fingers. It squirmed, its juices spilling. Dies Irae tossed it aside and