Josh Reynolds - Neferata

Despite weathering any number of sieges, the defences of the Silver Pinnacle had never been penetrated to this degree, and the dwarfs scrambled to meet the threat that crept among them, red-eyed and bloody-fanged in the dark. And to their credit, these attempts were not wholly without success. Three of them were caught over the following days, and their screams still echoed through the depths. The dwarfs were not cruel. But they were thorough.

Despite the loss of her sisters, Freja accomplished her own task. A thrown lantern and burst casks of beer set the great storehouses alight and as the dwarfs fought to put the flames out, she had retreated into the darkness, seeking out her mistress.

Those dwarfs who could be spared to hunt Neferata and her followers were ambushed and slaughtered by their prey, their bodies hung up in the corridors to drain. Soon, the dwarfs abandoned the hunt, and instead stayed close to the well-lit and heavily defended areas. As Neferata had hoped, they had come to fear the dark, ceding it to her without realising that she had been moving in a singular direction since arriving. Razek might have put it together, but Razek was dead.

She and her followers moved ever upwards, bypassing treasure vaults and barracks, looking instead for more solemn targets. Namely, the Vaults of the Ancestors: the hallowed halls where the dwarfs of the Silver Pinnacle laid their dead to their eternal rest.

The grand tombs of Karaz Bryn were filled with generation upon generation of dawi dead. There were thousands of perfectly preserved bodies there, awaiting the dark touch of Neferata’s magics. And when she woke them from their dreamless slumber, they would march beneath her banner, crushing her enemies — all of her enemies, living and dead — beneath their metal-shod tread.

Eagerness filled her as they drew nearer to their goal. Morath had shown her how to scent the charnel breeze of hidden tombs and 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 from the dwarf woman’s fingers, illuminating the heretofore unseen runes that marked the doors in turn. Neferata felt the urge to flee grip her in the face of that glow, but she forced herself to creep forwards. The bats that were nestled in the nooks and crannies of the ceiling chattered quietly at her approach, and she stretched her mind towards them.

Their minds were like tiny candle flames and they crowded towards her, their hairy bodies covering hers for a moment. Once, such a thing would have disgusted her. Now she welcomed it. She let her hand drop and the bats followed it, circling her arm like a tornado of leather wings and teeth. ‘Go,’ she hissed. The bats spiralled down towards the guards and the priestess in a squeaking horde.

There were hundreds of bats and only two dozen dwarfs. Neferata dropped from the ceiling, landing on all fours before Dromble, who gaped at her in astonishment before Neferata closed her hands around his head and crushed both his skull and his helmet with one brutal motion. Then, without pausing, she jumped towards Hilga, knowing instinctively that the priestess was her most dangerous opponent. She caught the dwarf’s robes and yanked her away from the doors. Hilga uttered a sharp cry and a short-hafted hammer appeared in her hand. It bounced off Neferata’s pauldron and she released the priestess.

Hilga scrambled aside as one of the gruff warriors who’d accompanied her attacked Neferata. He swung his two-handed hammer in a mighty blow, and Neferata’s skin itched as the silver-threaded head of the hammer narrowly missed her. Her hands shot forwards, her claws tangling in his beard, and she wrenched him into the air and hurled him at the Vault doors hard enough to kill him. Blood splashed over the doors and she hissed in pleasure as the omnipresent pressure emanating from them dimmed. ‘Ha!’ she said, turning to lunge for another dwarf. A guard staggered towards her blindly, his head trapped in a mask of bats. Neferata grabbed him, crushing his limbs as she hefted him like a sack of grain and sent him crashing against the doors. Blood and brain matter splattered across the decorations and a moment later Naaima and the others dropped to the floor, racing easily through the cloud of bats. Naaima, a sword in each hand, sprang amongst the dwarfs in a violent dance punctuated by streamers of blood.