Behind them, she heard the soft pad of the feet of the ghouls they had brought from Sartosa — the sad, tattered remnants of the great ghoul-cult of Mordig — as they slipped from the bellies of the galleys that had brought them. Over a hundred of the creatures followed them inland as they moved towards the sleepy village.
‘Take them,’ Neferata hissed. The ghouls swarmed past her, loping towards the village…
Heavy mauls struck the massive interior doors that led into the hold. The mammoth ghouls who wielded them were even bigger than the creatures Neferata had faced. W’soran had outdone himself, fattening the beasts on the blood of her co-conspirators. Sticky protrusions of bone stuck out from their elephantine hides and their lungs flexed like bellows as they pounded unceasingly at the ancient portal, filling the air with thunderous groans as well as the reverberation of metal on metal. There were six of them, and Neferata knew that twice that number wouldn’t have been enough to bring down the doors. Not with the enchantments woven into the very core of their creation.
Behind the beasts, the silent ranks of the dead, their number swelled by the disgorged inhabitants of the great barrows and mass graves that riddled these hills, waited. Hundreds of tribes had come and gone in the centuries since Kadon had first raised Mourkain from the rock, and the dead of those tribes yet remained, if one knew where to look.
Amongst the dead, Morath sat astride his skeletal horse, surrounded by a vanguard of Strigoi, all clad in the black armour of Mourkain’s foundries. Ushoran had sent his most eager warriors to accompany her in her task. Or perhaps they were his most expendable ones. Some were fierce berserkers, like Dragoj or Racki, who had been among the first to turn on Vorag when he had faltered. Others, like taciturn Redzik and his clinging shadow Dzaja, were seasoned campaigners sent to keep hold of the reins. And then there were the overly-ambitious fence-sitters like Zandor and his cronies; they had sat out the coup, waiting to jump to the side of the victors. Now they sought to prove their loyalty with the over-enthusiastic fanaticism of the new convert.
Neferata and her handmaidens waited off to the side. ‘We’re not getting in this way,’ she murmured.
‘Then what would you suggest we do? Talk them into opening those doors?’ Khaled said, striding towards them through the ranks of skeletons. He looked at Neferata. ‘Then maybe you could, at that,’ he added.
‘I wouldn’t dream of interfering,’ Neferata said smoothly.
‘You’re supposed to be leading this little sortie, or had you forgotten?’ Khaled growled, not quite meeting her eyes. He didn’t dare, not even now.
‘You’re quite the one for determining what I’m supposed to be doing, aren’t you, my Kontoi?’
‘Horns,’ Naaima interjected.
‘They’ve been tootling for all they’re worth since this began,’ Khaled snapped. ‘What matters a bit more noise?’ He shot a glare at Naaima for daring to interrupt.
Neferata looked at Naaima. ‘Different horns,’ the former said. ‘Different signals, but to whom—’
There was a sound like stone snapping and then a wave of heat blew through the open outer doors, heralding the arrival of a downpour of molten rock. The bubbling, burning brew struck the lead elements of the undead army. Though the dead seemed unconcerned, the magma dissolved animated bone and ancient armour alike, reducing far too many of them to slag. Morath jerked his mount’s reins, forcing it to back up as the seeping edges of the spillage crept into the entryway. Nonetheless, the sudden rush of heat caused the skin of his face to blister and Morath grunted in pain. One of the Strigoi shrieked as a bit of the burning substance spattered him, and he staggered and fell, clawing at flesh which had suddenly assumed the consistency of stewed chicken.
‘Them,’ Anmar said, her voice filled with horror.
Neferata suddenly recalled the odd stone dragon head which had protruded from the lofty upper peaks of the mountain. It had seemed out of place at the time, but its purpose was plain now. ‘Clever, clever creatures,’ she snarled. Then, ‘They’re cutting our forces in half!’ she said, gesturing towards the ceiling with her sword. ‘We have to destroy that thing.’
‘The dead don’t mind it,’ Khaled protested, his eyes wide as he stared at the hissing, bubbling rock.
‘Of course not, they’re dead,’ Morath nearly shrieked. One hand was pressed to his face. ‘But they can be destroyed by it easily enough! I can’t revivify melted bone.’
Khaled snarled and shared a look with Redzik. The Strigoi was rangy and hawk-like and was a seasoned warrior, lacking Vorag’s bluster or Gashnag’s pomposity. He nodded and gestured to two of his fellows. ‘Jirek, Dinic, get up there,’ he growled. The two vampires hesitated, looking at their fallen fellow, who had been dragged from the burning liquid but whose healing was slow to begin. He mewled piteously, and his face looked like one overlarge raw wound. Redzik grunted and cast his gaze at Zandor. ‘What about you?’
‘I think not,’ the ajal said, stepping back, his hands raised.
Neferata snorted. ‘The courage of Strigos is legendary,’ she said. ‘I’ll go.’
‘Not alone,’ Anmar said. Neferata looked at the girl for a moment, and then nodded. Khaled growled.
‘Foolishness. Fine, Jirek, Dinic, come with me, the rest of you organise some sort of defence — the dwarfs won’t sit idle. They’ll try to crush us between the hammer and the anvil. We’ll soon have every warrior in this rat-hole at our throats.’ For a moment, Khaled shed the lethargy of the predator and was once more the Kontoi he had been in life. He looked at Neferata. ‘After you, my lady,’ he said.
‘Too kind,’ Neferata murmured. The magma had cooled into a black splotch across the snow. Bone limbs twitched as it hardened. She stepped lightly across it and began to ascend towards the peak, moving as swiftly as she was able. Anmar followed close at her heels and the others just behind. The snow had been melted away, revealing the carefully crafted runnels which had been installed to conduct the flow of the magma. The ingenuity of the dwarfs was impressive. They were a people who thought defensively, preparing for onslaughts which might never come. Neferata could respect that sort of cunning.
The wind smashed against them as they climbed, and the snow fell in great clumps. They didn’t feel the cold, but it played merry havoc with their senses, rendering sight, smell and sound unreliable. Nonetheless, the vampires climbed quickly, following the runnel. Neferata caught a scrape of stone on stone and reached out to touch the edge of the runnel. It trembled slightly. ‘Take cover!’ she shouted, throwing herself to the side. The others did as she did even as a blistering explosion of fiery liquid sluiced down from on high, throwing up fumes and steam. The Strigoi, Dinic, wasn’t fast enough and he howled as the magma caught him.
Neferata watched as Dinic staggered to his feet, enshrouded in burning liquid. The magma seemed to reach out and enfold him in molten fingers. The vampire’s screams rose in pitch as his flesh crumbled off his bones. Tearing at himself, Dinic stumbled back and fell into the runnel, dissolving even as he hit the magma flow.
‘That’s done it,’ Neferata said. She sprang to her feet as the last of the magma slid away and dropped into the runnel. ‘They know we’re coming — hurry!’ The stone of the runnel was painfully hot and her flesh reddened and blistered as she ran. She ignored the pain. It was an easier path than climbing the mountain, and more effective. The stone maw of the dragon rose over her. She leapt up, slithering between its char-black fangs and down its throat.