Ghoulslayer

Chapter Twelve The Morn-Prince

Lord Aurun watched as a sleeping girl was lifted up into a cart. The driver took her carefully and placed her with the other sleeping children. She was around six or seven, younger than any of the others nestling in the sacks and blankets, and she looked tiny. As the cart rattled away from him, the girl looked like an infant, frail and defenceless. He tapped his scythe against the ground, feeling his pulse quicken. I will not fail them, he thought. I have the strength to do this, and I will not fail.

‘No one would judge you if you left,’ said a voice behind him.

‘Everyone would judge me.’ Aurun’s voice was stern. ‘Above all, the Unburied. And they would be right.’

He turned to face the man standing with him at the East Gate, a frail septuagenarian with sharp, brittle-looking features – a priest dressed in white robes. Corsos was hunched by age, and he was leaning on a femur as tall as he was. The enormous bone had been bleached and carved with sigils, and an iron padlock hung from one end. Corsos was the most senior priest in the Barren Points, and the intricately engraved lock was a symbol of his authority. Aurun had also seen him use it to club sense into some of the younger acolytes.

‘We have lived through blessed times,’ Aurun continued, gazing at the buildings behind Corsos. The prominent was almost empty. Most of the windows were dark. The only light came from the souls embedded in its heart. ‘All these generations, hidden from everyone. Nothing required of us other than to watch and wait. Who in all the Mortal Realms has lived as we have? Who else has known this peace? And now, at the crucial moment, we have a chance to show our worth.’

Corsos nodded. ‘The Morn-Prince will soon come. I have seen it. The Unburied have seen it. We need only hold the walls for another day or so. Prince Volant left the capital with a host unlike anything he has ever mustered before. It does not matter how all these mordants found their way into Morbium. None of them will leave.’

Aurun smiled. ‘Bold words from a man armed with a bone. If you could have dragged yourself away from those holy texts, you would have made a good general.’

Corsos laughed and raised his arms, revealing his scrawny frame. ‘I do have the physique of a hero.’

They both looked back at the train of disparate vehicles rolling away from the fortress, dwarfed by the vast, rigid breakers of the Eventide. ‘Well,’ said Aurun. ‘Whether the prince arrives soon or not, the Barren Points will stand.’

They walked back through the gates towards the centre of the fortress. Soldiers in the black of the Gravesward were dashing from building to building, readying defences and fetching weapons before moving out to the city walls.

Aurun saluted them as he passed, filled with pride. These men had sworn their oaths as children. None of them knew what the words really meant. To serve in life and death. To preserve the Unburied, whatever the price. What does a child know of such things? But when he gave the orders for evacuation and allowed them the chance to leave with the civilians, not one of them had even considered going. The sky around them was almost entirely dark. The prominents had all died, dragged beneath the dead tides, their lights extinguished. But his men were like beacons, their lacquered armour flashing in the light of the Unburied. It was a glorious sight. Aurun had waited his whole life for this chance to prove himself, living in the shadow of the ancestors, with their tales of heroism and glory. And now he would have his chance to earn a place in their ranks, not as a subordinate but as an equal.

‘Have you met the prince before?’ asked Aurun.

Corsos shook his head. ‘I have read all the histories of the Morn-Princes, though. I know they are more than men.’

Aurun nodded. ‘Volant is larger than a normal man. And stronger. But I would not say he is more than us, Corsos. Merely different.’

‘Do you like him?’

Aurun shook his head, surprised by the question. ‘Like? “Like” would be a strange word to use in relation to Prince Volant. I respect him and I trust him, much as I think he trusts me.’ He shrugged. ‘He is hard to explain. But you should soon be able to judge him for yourself.’

Aurun spent another hour inspecting the defences and talking to his men. He had expected to find them anxious and afraid, but if anything, they seemed excited. He could understand it. They had spent their whole lives being told that they were born for one purpose, to protect their ancestors, and now they were going to have a chance to finally show that they were worthy of all that trust. The more time he spent talking to the men on the walls, the more proud he felt. Their excitement was infectious. They would easily hold the walls until Prince Volant arrived, and then he would explain to him why they need not leave. And then the people of the Barren Points would be free to return home.

As they climbed the walls and headed towards Aurun’s chambers, excited voices rang out.

‘The prince!’ cried the men on the ramparts. ‘All hail the Morn-Prince!’

All along the walls, the sound of horns rang out, bright and bold, seeming to drive back the shadows.

Aurun grabbed Corsos by the shoulder, and the two old friends grinned at each other.

Two worlds were visible to Prince Volant – the first was illusory, full of pain and doubt, and the second was true, full of life yet to be lived, where understanding would be attained. He alone in the princedom could see so clearly and so far, and his royal attire was designed to symbolise the duality of his vision. Like his subordinates in the Gravesward, he wore lacquered black armour and a white, feathered cloak, but his helmet was of a unique, ceremonial design. It was intricately worked so that one side resembled a snarling face, obsidian black and shockingly ferocious, and the other side was palest ivory, its expression serene. The Morn-Prince had a habit, perhaps a subconscious one, of turning his head as he talked, depending on which side of his mask best represented his mood. As he looked down from his saddle at Lord Aurun, only the black side of his mask was visible.

His steed was a skeleton drake, its gleaming bones clad in the same black as its rider. As the prince leant out from its back, the drake settled its enormous wings with a sound like rattling spears. Behind Volant were knights of the royal Gravesward, scythes gleaming and pennants trailing. Their steeds were smaller kin of the beast the prince was riding. It was an impressive sight. Aurun had never received such a visit before. In fact, he had never heard of anyone receiving such a visit.

Behind the pennants was a less cheerful reminder of the prince’s power. Dozens of cylindrical cages were raised up on poles, swaying above the knights’ heads, and each held a pitiful, emaciated wretch, stripped of their clothes and painted with runes. These were the Barred. They were men the prince had deemed unworthy – men who had failed to protect the Unburied. Some were already dead, dangling from their cages, but others would last for days, their cries growing weaker until they finally died from their wounds or lack of water.

‘Did you receive my order?’ said the prince. He spoke softly, but the words chimed through his helmet like a temple bell.

‘Your highness, I did,’ replied Aurun, determined not to be cowed before his men. ‘But the messenger was wounded and confused. He did not make sense. And I’m afraid he did not survive more than a few days. Even if he had lived, I could not have complied with the order.’

The prince stared down at Aurun for a moment. They were outside the fortress, near where the wynd rose to meet its gaping North Gate. The Barren Points was one of the largest fortresses in the princedom, second only to the prince’s own palace, the Lingering Keep. The light of the Unburied was pouring through the walls and flashing across the knights’ scythes, making it hard for Aurun to see the prince. He had to hold up a hand to shield his eyes. The desperate cries of the Barred rang out from their cages, pitiful and deranged as they called for mercy. Aurun knew they were wasting their breath. Prince Volant was known for many things. Mercy was not one of them.

‘We have ridden a long way to reach you, Lord Aurun,’ prompted one of the prince’s captains.

Aurun started, shocked to be addressed so casually by a subordinate.

He bit back an angry reply, conscious that the prince was still staring at him, and stepped back, waving the royal knights through the temple gates. He called for grooms and servants as the deathless steeds clanked past.

‘Give me a few minutes,’ said the prince as his attendants helped him from the drake. Aurun was not lacking in height, but the prince towered over him, eight or nine feet tall and bristling with lacquered ebon plate. His voice sounded like an echo in a crypt. ‘Then join me in my chambers. We have only a few hours to prepare.’

Aurun hesitated, confused. He had been waiting for this moment for years, but now that it had come, it was not playing out how he had expected. He bowed, and was about to reply when he realised the prince had already strode off across the courtyard, preceded by a scurry of servants and courtiers.

Corsos looked as shocked as Aurun. ‘A few hours to prepare for what?’

Aurun shook his head. The column of knights was still riding into the square, and as they passed, Aurun noticed that many of them were wounded, their armour gouged and battered, as though they had been grappling with animals. Their faces were speckled with blood, the crimson stark and shocking against their bone-white skin, and several looked little better than the prisoners suspended above their heads. More shocking than that were the numbers.

‘Is that all of them?’ whispered Corsos, his eyes wide as he leant on his bone staff, peering out through the gates.

They both stared in shock as they realised that there were no more knights coming down the wynd.

‘That’s barely two dozen men,’ said Aurun, shaking his head. ‘I thought this was meant to be the greatest host ever to ride out of the Lingering Keep. Did the Unburied give you no word of this? Did they make no mention of the prince’s situation?’

Corsos looked uncomfortable. ‘Nothing. But you know what I have already told you. They’re troubled and strange. They do not speak with voices I am accustomed to. The last time I prayed to them, they–’

Lord Aurun silenced him with a wave of his hand, already aware of his friend’s concerns. ‘It matters not. We are prepared.’ In fact, thought Aurun, if the prince’s numbers were reduced, it would give him all the better chance to show what the men of the Barren Points were capable of. ‘Do not let this interrupt the usual observances. Make sure everyone gathers for pallsong as usual. Fetch the shield poems from the reliquary and choose something appropriate. I will speak with the prince. When he learns how we have prepared for this day, he will want to come and sing with us.’

Corsos bowed. He turned to leave, but hesitated. ‘My lord,’ he said, nodding at the wounded knights. ‘This must be to do with whatever made the other temples vanish. The prince must have come here because we are–’

‘What happened at the other temples will not happen here.’ Aurun raised his chin. ‘We are different.’ The haughty tones of Prince Volant had given him a new surge of determination. ‘These are the Barren Points. We will not be sent into disarray by the negligence of others. We will not abandon our wards because others cannot tend to theirs.’

Corsos nodded, but seemed unable to drag his gaze from the darkness.

‘Corsos!’ called Aurun, heading back into the temple. ‘Ready the shields. Gather the choir.’

‘They’re gone?’ Aurun found a chair and sat, staring at the floor, his breath quickening.

The servants had put the prince in a room on the south face of the fortress with a balcony that overlooked the wynd. From up here, the huge iron bridge looked like a gossamer thread, glittering with hoarfrost, floating over a gelid storm. Volant’s advisers were waiting outside in the hall, and the two knights were alone.

‘Gone,’ repeated the prince. ‘Nearly half of our keeps. Thirty-two prominents.’ His voice was rigid. He had removed his ceremonial helmet and his face was striking – pale and harsh, with brutal, angular features. ‘There are many souls we will never recover.’

Aurun shook his head, dazed by the scale of the defeat. His chest felt tight. ‘There must be a way. You are the Morn-Prince. Surely you are able to–’

‘They are gone. You know why these temples were built, Lord Aurun. If our ancestors are not anchored to prominents, they go the way of every other soul.’ The prince was squeezed awkwardly into the chair opposite Aurun, his voice dangerously soft. ‘They go to the Nadir, Aurun. To the necromancer. They go to Nagash.’

Aurun gripped the arms of the chair. It was rare for anyone to use the name of the soul-thief so openly. ‘But how? The Iron Shroud kept us hidden all this time. Even when the other princedoms fell. Why are we in danger now?’

‘The Great Necromancer’s power has grown. The Unburied tried to warn me, but Nagash’s power has muffled their voices and muddied my vision. I knew there was a problem, but I thought I still had time. I thought I would still be able to complete my work. The necromancer has performed an act of great sorcery, Aurun. The Unburied showed me a black pyramid turned on its head, ripping souls from the sky. After all these centuries, the necromancer has played his final hand.’ There was a fire snapping in the hearth beside them, and Volant stared into the flames. ‘This is a new death magic. Whatever he has done is too powerful even for the Iron Shroud. Nothing is safe anymore, not even Morbium.’

Aurun thought of the little girl in the cart, out on the wynds, with only half a dozen Gravesward to watch over her.

Prince Volant leant closer. ‘My messenger should have explained all of this. Why are you still here?’ The two men had met before, as children, in the Lingering Keep, but Volant gave no sign of recognising Aurun. ‘Why haven’t you acted?’ he demanded.

‘Your messenger did talk of mordants destroying temples, but that is not a thing we need be concerned with here. We have heard the same vague warnings as you, my prince, and we have been preparing for months.’ He tapped his armour. It was a new design, cunningly crafted by Aurun’s artisans, beautifully engraved and studded with white gemstones. ‘We have refined and strengthened our defences, your highness. Every aspect of the Barren Points has been tempered and readied. You have not seen us in action before, but now I will show you what this prominent is capable of. No mordants could hope to breach these walls, whatever Nagash has done.’

The prince studied him in silence, but Aurun noticed that he was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that the wood was starting to creak.

‘Where have they come from?’ asked Aurun. ‘I have heard of an occasional outbreak of flesh-eaters, but never whole armies entering the princedom.’

The prince stared at him for a moment longer, then replied in the same soft voice. ‘The Iron Shroud has been damaged. Morbium has been revealed to the other princedoms – lands desecrated by the necro­mancer before you or I were born. The mordants can now see us. They can cross our borders as though we are just another territory. They have travelled down the wynds, murdering the gatekeepers. They’re a plague, sweeping through the princedom, devouring everything. Our ancestors mean nothing to them. They are insane.’

Aurun felt the darkness pressing in, suffocating him. Then he recalled the legions of men he had trained and armed. ‘We can stop them, your highness. This invasion will halt at the Barren Points. And the victory will be all the sweeter with you at our side. You have skill to match the necromancer. You are the Morn-Prince. The wisdom of the Unburied is in your blood. Their power is in your hands.’

‘I am not a god. And I am no match for a god. What power I have is bound to the Lingering Keep. Outside my palace I can do little.’ Volant’s voice was still neutral, and Aurun could not gain any idea of what the prince was feeling. Was he furious or relieved?

‘I intended to gather every soul in the princedom and return them to the capital.’ Some of the rigidity had slipped from his voice, and for a moment, he just sounded like an exhausted man. ‘I have lost hundreds of my own royal Gravesward.’

‘Is he here, then? Is Nagash in Morbium?’

‘No. The mordants are animals. They are revolting, inhuman things. But they bleed and they die. They are not born of necromancy. Perhaps they pay some kind of allegiance to Nagash, but they are too feral to be his true allies. They serve nothing but their own vile hunger. If the Great Necromancer’s gaze had fallen on us, we would be facing spirit hosts rather than these mindless flesh-eaters. His sorcery has toppled our gates, but it was not specifically directed at us. He has summoned a great power and cast it over all the underworlds. All of Shyish. I do not think he has even noticed our existence yet. The mordants are savages. They have no idea what they’ve found.’ Volant shrugged and poured himself a cup of wine. ‘But they will destroy us just the same.’

‘Destroy us? How could you say such a thing?’

The prince hesitated, then shook his head, the cold, flat tone returning to his voice. ‘I can do little out here on the wynds, but it’s a different matter in the capital. With the help of High Priestess Lhosia, I have been working on a new defence, a new Iron Shroud. We may not be able to safeguard the whole of Morbium anymore, but I have found a way to hide the Unburied in the capital, even against this new power the necromancer is wielding. I provided her with a powerful relic called the Cerement Stone. She is currently inspecting our defences, but I have been assembling the Unburied in the Lingering Keep so that when she returns, I can harness their souls through the stone and Lhosia’s rites and preserve them.’ He finished his wine and poured another cup. ‘I have sent word to all the temples. Everyone who still can is heading to the capital. All the prominents have been destroyed or abandoned.’ He paused. ‘Apart from yours.’

‘So that’s why the lights have died?’ Aurun looked out into the darkness. ‘The Gravesward have taken the Unburied back to the capital?’

‘You are not listening. Half the fortresses have been destroyed. They have sunk into the Eventide. The souls are gone. Caught in the nets of the necromancer. And without the souls of ancestors to keep them afloat, the prominents have fallen beneath the dead waters.’ The prince shook his head. ‘And I cannot guarantee that everyone who fled will make it to the Lingering Keep. The mordants are too numerous. They have taken many of the wynds. Even the Gravesward will have a hard fight crossing those bridges, especially when burdened with their ancestors’ caskets.’

Aurun shook his head. Only the thought of the caged corpses outside stopped him laughing in disbelief. ‘This cannot be, your highness. You would have me believe that in a matter of weeks Morbium has gone from impregnable to defeated. This princedom has defied the necromancer for centuries. How can it have so easily collapsed?’

Prince Volant sipped his wine, studying Aurun over the rim of his cup. ‘The mordants are headed here next,’ he said, ignoring the question. ‘We heard word of them everywhere we went. Yours is the last light in the sky. They are coming for you.’

‘Which is what you meant when you said we only had a few hours to prepare our defence. Why are we sitting here? I will muster the Gravesward and prepare the ballistae. The archers are already ­assembled. I will ready the defences.’

‘You are not listening to me. There is no defence. Not out here on the wynds. You will return to the Lingering Keep. All of you, living and Unburied. You have a few hours to prepare for the journey and perform the necessary rites.’ The prince looked around the room. ‘The Barren Points is one of the largest citadels in the princedom. You have hundreds of Unburied here, contained within those twelve cocoons. Thousands, maybe. I will not risk losing them.’

Aurun sat up in his chair, trying to shrug off the grim atmosphere Volant had created. ‘It’s impossible,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘We cannot move the Unburied.’

Volant’s eyes flickered and the arms of his chair creaked. ‘In a matter of hours you will be besieged. Mordants will butcher you, and then they will destroy the Separating Chambers. Every soul in this fortress will be lost.’

Aurun was horrified by the prince’s bleak manner. How could someone so unambitious, so lacking in faith, rule Morbium? He wondered if this despair and defeatism were the cause of the entire problem. ‘You do not understand, your highness. It’s not possible to move the Unburied. And even if it were, there would be no need.’

Prince Volant stood, his expression rigid as he loomed over Aurun, his massive frame all the more impressive in the tiny confines of the room. ‘Every noble in Morbium has done as I ordered. Everyone has headed for the Lingering Keep. Only you have failed to obey. Only you have remained out here on the wynds, far from my reach, endangering the souls I have entrusted to you. Why is that, Aurun? And why have we had no word from you during all this time? Is there something you wish to hide?’

Aurun stood to face him. ‘Are you accusing me of treason, your majesty?’

‘Why are you still here?’

Aurun shook his head, biting back his rage. Then he waved to the door. ‘Let me show you.’

The innermost coils of the fortress were like the chambers of a shell, spiralling and shimmering as they plunged deeper beneath the surface of the Eventide. The prominents had not been built by tools and hands but by the sorcery of an earlier age, when the gods still fought together against the Ruinous Powers and their supplicants could harness even the most violent aether currents. They were bone constructs, pale, translucent vessels woven from the air and suspended in a lifeless sea.

As the prince’s attendants rushed through the streets, their torches quickly became superfluous. The ivory light radiating from the walls grew stronger as they approached the heart of the Barren Points. The chill grew the further they descended, and the damp air tasted of salt. Aurun led the way with Prince Volant at his side. Ahead of them went the elderly priest, Corsos, with a phalanx of Gravesward, their armour shimmering in the bone-light.

At each intersection they were met by a pair of priests clad in the white robes of their order, but Corsos waved them away with his bone staff, muttering prayers as the guards admitted them into the fortress’ innermost districts. Finally, they reached a building even grander than the previous ones, constructed of the same intricately carved bone but blazing so brightly that Corsos squinted as he pushed the doors open.

They entered a vast circular hall with curving, spine-like columns that stretched up the walls and disappeared into a blazing inferno of amethyst light. The glare was so great that it was only just possible to make out the shapes of twelve cocoons hanging overhead. They were enmeshed in a labyrinth of pipes, chains and cables, all of which were shimmering.

Prince Volant strode into the middle of the hall, his iron-shod boots clanging across the bone floor as he looked up into the light.

‘The Barren Points are unlike any other prominent,’ said Lord Aurun, waving up at the machines. ‘The Unburied are bound into the walls. The twelve caskets are part of the foundations. These engines were designed by the Kharadron at the dawn of the princedom.’

Volant shook his head. ‘Do you think I don’t know my own princedom, Aurun? Did you think I knew nothing of how the Barren Points were designed? Remove the Unburied from these machines.’

‘But, Prince–’ began Aurun.

Volant spoke over him. ‘There is no other way. Get everyone you can out of the city, then remove the Unburied from their cradles. There will be time to flee the fortress before it sinks.’

Aurun was too furious to respond, so Corsos spoke up on his behalf.

‘Prince Volant, forgive me, but there is no way to remove the Unburied from the machines. The devices are alien and ancient. Their workings are a mystery even to the Unburied themselves. Only the duardin who built this hall could remove them. If we abandon the Barren Points, we will be abandoning the Unburied.’

Volant stared at him, then turned towards one of his own priests.

The man looked panicked. ‘Dontidae Corsos is learned in matters concerning the Unburied. If he says it is so, then it must be so.’

Prince Volant was silent for several moments, gazing up at the machines and the cocoons embedded in them. ‘How many are there?’ he said eventually, his voice much quieter than before.

‘Unburied?’ said Lord Aurun. ‘In all twelve cocoons? There must be over a thousand.’

Volant closed his eyes.

Aurun tried to hide his triumph. ‘Your highness. We are prepared for this. We have sent everyone away who is not needed. This fortress is ready for war. We are ready for whatever the mordants can throw at us.’

Volant’s voice sounded hollow. ‘Show me.’

They marched from the Separating Chambers, and ten minutes later they were clambering up onto the ribs of the fortress, causing a noisy commotion as white-robed priests and black-armoured Gravesward dropped to their knees, whispering prayers as the prince passed by.

Once they had reached the battlements, Prince Volant inspected the defences, striding up and down the lines of men. He towered over them like a demigod, reordering the troops and repositioning the war engines.

‘It is a fine sight,’ said Corsos, speaking quietly in Aurun’s ear as they surveyed the ranks of knights. Reinforcements from other prominents had been arriving all day, and it was the largest muster either of them had ever seen. As well as the knights, there were lines of archers dressed in a lightweight version of the black Gravesward armour, with white plumes on their caps in place of the feathered robes worn by the knights.

Aurun nodded, but his eye kept coming back to Prince Volant’s knights. Volant had positioned them directly above the main gates into the fortress, and as they formed into ranks, Aurun was near enough to see how savagely they had been attacked. Gravesward armour was made of thick, lacquered leather, treated so cunningly that it formed into plates as hard as steel. But it had not been strong enough to protect the prince’s men. Their wing-shaped shields were dented and their armour was torn, exposing deep, bloody wounds.

‘How can mordants do that?’ he asked as the prince returned to stand at his side.

‘What?’

Aurun nodded to the wounded knights. ‘What weapons do they use that can tear through our armour?’

Volant shook his head. ‘No weapons. Only naked fury. They are deranged. It gives them unnatural strength.’

Volant looked around, frowning. ‘Where are the rest of your men?’

Aurun nodded, trying to hide his pride. ‘This is barely a third of our reserves, Morn-Prince. I have deployed the bulk of our army out on the wynd.’ He nodded to the gatehouse barring the road, about half a mile out from the city gates. ‘The approach to the fortress is only a hundred or so feet wide. There will be a bottleneck. My men will be able to hold the mordants back for as long as we need in such tight confines.’ He smiled. ‘Meanwhile, my archers will butcher them. They will never even reach the fortress.’

Prince Volant stared at Aurun. ‘You have to call them back.’

A bell clanged, up on one of the towers.

‘Too late,’ muttered Volant, sounding dazed.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Aurun. ‘Too late? Too late for what?’

The prince ignored him, stomping over to the walls and leaning out into the night.

A hush fell over the lines of knights as they all peered out into the darkness, straining to see what had triggered the alarm.

The bell clanged again, followed by another further down the wall, then dozens more followed suit, until the whole fortress rang to the sound of the alarm.

‘The sea is moving,’ muttered Corsos, confused. The black waves had started to ripple and surge for miles in every direction. ‘How? The Eventide is solid. How can it move like a normal sea?’

‘It’s not the sea,’ replied Volant.

‘What do you…?’ Aurun’s words trailed off as he understood. The entire ocean, every mile of the Eventide, was swarming with crowds. Thousands of mordants were surging through the darkness.

‘They’re not using the wynds,’ breathed Corsos, gripping his bone staff as though he were about to collapse. ‘They’re crossing the sea.’

‘How?’ cried Aurun as the dark legions poured past the gatehouses like an oil slick. ‘It is impossible to walk on the Eventide!’

‘Why?’ said Prince Volant, sounding calm again despite the horror of the scene below.

‘Because it means madness. No one can touch the Eventide without losing their mind.’

‘How do you break a mind that has already been shattered?’

Aurun stared, trying to make sense of the numbers, but the prince climbed up a few steps, making himself look even more like a giant, and raised his scythe high into the air. ‘The ancestors are with us!’ he cried, his voice magnified somehow, so that every soldier and knight on the walls turned to face him. ‘They’re in our hearts! In our blades! Every generation of Erebid is on these walls. Those godless creatures have no idea what they’re about to face. I came here because this is where the war will be won!’

The prince’s voice boomed with such conviction that Aurun almost found himself believing him, even though he knew the prince had only come to order a retreat.

‘Here is where we make our stand!’ roared the prince. ‘Today we end this sacrilege. Today we drive the mordants out!’

The soldiers on the walls raised their scythes and howled, full of righteous fury, their fear forgotten.

Aurun remained silent. As the knights revelled in the glory of fighting with their prince, Aurun watched the gatehouse half a mile away vanishing under a tsunami of grey, feral bodies.

‘Look at them,’ he whispered, staring at the tides of ghouls rushing towards them.

‘Look at him,’ said Corsos, nodding at the prince.

Volant had returned to his skeleton steed and climbed up into the saddle. He looked like a figure from legend, head thrown back and scythe raised as his mount reared beneath him.

‘Gravesward, to war!’ he roared as the skeleton pounded its fleshless wings and launched him into the sky.

All along the wall, Volant’s honour guard drove their steeds from the fortress, gliding out into the darkness, pennants snapping.

The skeleton mounts looped in formation, like a single, mountainous serpent, then dived, plunging towards the wynd and the battle at the gatehouse.

Aurun shook his head, awed by the sight. Then he stood up straight, dusted down his armour and began marching through the lines of knights. His initial shock was fading. Nothing had changed. They were prepared for this. ‘Ready the ballistae!’ he cried, waving his scythe at the towers that punctuated the walls. War machines rumbled into view – huge iron bolt-throwers decorated with wings of bone, designed to resemble the moths that circled constantly overhead.

‘Load the barrels!’ he called, and huge, smoking vats of oil were ratcheted up into place on the walls.

‘Archers take aim!’ Hundreds of bowmen rushed past the knights and readied their weapons, targeting the crowds surging towards the walls.

Aurun was ashamed of how he had hesitated at the sight of the mordants. The Morn-Prince had taken to the air with bravery and determination, despite the fact that he had never intended to make his stand here. None of this was as Volant had intended, but he had rallied the men with as much confidence as if this had been planned months ago. Aurun resolved to do the same. As he strode back and forth, howling his orders, his determination grew. The Unburied could not be moved, but neither would they be abandoned.

Corsos stumbled after him, gripping his bone staff. He had just opened his mouth to say something when he halted and peered out into the darkness.

The battle at the gatehouse was raging, a clamour echoing across the Eventide, but Corsos frowned and put a hand to his ear. ‘What is that?’ he cried.

Aurun paused to listen. ‘What?’ All he could hear was the din of battle and the sound of the bells ringing behind him.

Corsos held up a finger to silence him, still listening intently.

Then Aurun heard it – a thin, ululating shriek.

‘What is that?’ he muttered.

A captain rushed over to him, asking for clarity on his orders. Aurun answered his question, and by the time the captain had gone, the shriek was much clearer. It was quickly getting louder, and something about it caused Aurun’s blood to cool. It was like dozens of tormented voices screaming in concert.

He shrugged and tried to ignore the sound as he saw that the mordants not attacking the gatehouse had now reached the foot of the fortress walls and were starting to climb up its twisting, claw-like buttresses.

‘On my order!’ he cried to the archers.

The mordants moved with unbelievable speed, scrambling up the walls like spiders bursting from an egg, swarming towards them with no need of ropes or hooks. The sight of them filled Aurun with revulsion. They were beings without souls. Men without minds. Vessels for a grotesque hunger and nothing else. He held his hatred in check, keeping his hand raised until he was sure they would be easy targets. Then he swept his hand down and launched hell.

A storm of arrows sliced into the mordants, tearing through their sagging flesh and ripping them away from the walls. Dozens tumbled back through the air, trailing arcs of blood and crashing into the mob below.

As the archers loosed wave after wave of arrows, the screaming sound grew so loud that some of them started to miss their marks, wincing and cursing as they shot.

‘There!’ said Corsos, pointing into the distance.

A shape was rushing through the clouds towards the fortress, a grotesque parody of the prince’s skeleton steed. Rather than an elegant serpent of gleaming bones, it was an ugly, snub-faced thing, with ragged, fleshy wings and scraps of intestine trailing from its butchered chest. It looked like the carcass of an enormous bat, and its mouth was open, revealing long, cruel incisors and filling the air with that hideous shriek.

As the sound grew in volume, Aurun’s head started to pound and he became gripped by an overwhelming sense of dread. His heart hammered in his chest, and his hands began to shake.

‘A terrorgheist,’ gasped Corsos.

Aurun shook his head, trying to escape the sound. ‘A what?’

‘It will send us mad!’ cried Corsos, covering his ears. ‘The sound will send us mad!’

Aurun looked across the wall and saw that some of the archers had staggered away from the battlements, shaking their heads and dropping their longbows. Even the lines of Gravesward standing behind them were lowering their scythes, gripping their heads and cursing.

‘Block your ears!’ shouted Aurun. He grabbed some dust from the ground, spat in it and jammed it in his ears, waving for his men to do the same. ‘Block out the noise!’

All along the wall, knights and soldiers dropped to their knees, seizing fistfuls of dirt and trying to cram it into their ears.

The dust lessened the sound for a moment, but as the terrorgheist hurtled towards the walls, the noise became unbearable.

‘Fire the ballistae!’ cried Aurun, and the men in the towers struggled to comply, triggering their war machines as best they could while reeling from the sound.

The bolts went wide, whistling off into the clouds as the terrorgheist crashed into the battlements, hurling bone and masonry in every direction as it waded onto the top of the wall, screaming furiously at the soldiers scrambling for cover.

The monster was huge – thirty or forty feet long, with enormous leathery wings that thrashed violently as it tried to find a steady perch on the wall.

With the archers scattering, the Gravesward rushed towards the creature, raising their scythes to attack.

The monster hit them with a scream like a body blow, causing them to stumble and stagger. Most of them failed to land a blow, and those that did only hacked through flaps of dead, ragged skin.

The terrorgheist’s head lunged forwards and ripped through the knights.

Aurun stumbled through the carnage, dodging around staggering knights in his attempt to reach the monster.

This close, the scream was horrific. It felt like his head was being split open, and he struggled to see clearly, his eyes were so full of tears. There was also a nauseating smell pouring from the monster’s heaving carcass. Several of the knights near Aurun were doubled over, gagging on the foetid stink.

He reached the creature and landed a blow, slamming his scythe into its chest. The blade cut easily through the exposed ribs, but the wound had no effect. The terrorgheist did not even seem to notice him as it dropped a fresh corpse from its mouth and waded into the crush of archers and knights, locking its jaws around another man and ripping him in two.

Aurun tried to attack again, but before he could, the monster reared back and let out its loudest screech yet.

Aurun fell to his knees, deafened and in so much pain that he could not see.

Other knights collapsed all around him, helpless to defend themselves as the monster lurched forwards, ripping and tearing, filling the air with blood and howls.

The scream grew until Aurun curled into a foetal position, his muscles locked with cramp and his breath caught in his chest. His lungs burned and his oxygen-starved brain began to withdraw into itself. The cries of his men and the scream of the terrorgheist faded, becoming distant and vague, as though he were remembering his death rather than experiencing it.

Light burned into Aurun’s mind, and he mouthed a prayer, preparing to meet his ancestors. Then he realised that as the light grew, the terrorgheist’s scream was faltering. His vision was also returning. He saw that the light was not in his mind, but burning through the walls of the fortress. It was the amethyst fire of the Unburied.

His muscles loosened enough for him to breathe, and he managed to sit up and look around. All across the wall, men were struggling to rise as the scream dropped away, but rather than attacking, they were staring up in shock.

The Morn-Prince was circling overhead.

He still had his scythe raised, and he had been transformed by the Unburied. Their fire had leapt from the walls of the fortress and ignited his armour. He was burning with the power of the ancestors.

Prince Volant lashed out with his scythe, and purple light ripped through the air, slamming into the terrorgheist’s face.

The monster fell backwards, pounding its wings, trying to right itself as amethyst fire drummed into its flesh, engulfing it in sparks and smoke.

The terrorgheist launched itself from the wall and locked its jaws on the neck of Volant’s steed. The winged goliaths looped and dived, screaming and roaring as they tore at each other.

‘The walls!’ cried Aurun as dozens of figures poured over the battle­ments. He cursed when he realised that whatever happened to the terrorgheist now, it had done its job. While it kept his men occupied, the mordants had scaled the walls and were now pouring into the fortress.

He rallied the knights nearest to him and led a charge, howling as he cut down the first mordant to reach him.

It was frenzied and desperate. The mordants clawed at the knights like animals, and there were so many of them, flooding onto the walls with a roar of snarls and grunts.

Aurun staggered backwards, swiping, hacking and slipping on blood. The knights around him fought with the same furious, silent determination and managed to hold their ground until a massive shape crashed down beside them, sending a violent tremor through the walls and causing everyone to stagger.

Aurun dragged himself clear of the scrum, up onto the battlements, and saw that the two winged monsters had crashed to the ground.

Volant slammed onto the wall and rolled away as his steed collapsed and fell in the other direction.

The terrorgheist leant back and opened its bloody jaws, preparing to scream again, but Volant’s armour was still ablaze with the power of his ancestors, and he hurled it from his scythe.

The terrorgheist’s head jolted back, and as it tried to shake away the flames, Prince Volant dived across the wall and sank the full length of his curved blade into the monster’s skull.

The creature jolted upwards, trying to fling the prince away, but he gripped the haft of his scythe and yanked it down, splitting its head in two.

Archers and Gravesward cheered as the terrorgheist crashed to the ground, juddered, then lay still.

The Morn-Prince turned to face his men, light still shining from his black armour. He held his scythe aloft, trailing strands of blood from the blade, and his men howled even louder.

‘The Unburied are with us!’ cried Prince Volant. ‘Now and forever. And when this battle is–’

His words became a pained cough and he stumbled forwards.

Then he dropped to his knees, revealing the figure standing behind him. It was a mordant, and it was gripping a bloodstained shard of iron as long as its arm. It stood over the prince, panting hungrily, about to pounce on him, but dozens of arrows kicked it backwards through the air, sending it hurtling from the battlements.

‘To the prince!’ howled Aurun, running through the battle and climbing up the terrorgheist’s corpse.

Gravesward formed a circle around Volant, holding back waves of mordants.

As the flesh-eaters continued tumbling onto the wall in great crowds, swamping the fortress’ defenders, Lord Aurun dropped to Prince Volant’s side and grabbed his bloody armour.

At first he thought the prince was dead, but then Volant coughed, spraying blood through the mouth grille of his helmet.

He managed to sit up and grab Aurun’s arm. ‘We’ve lost the gatehouse. Can you hold the wall?’

Aurun nodded, then glanced around. ‘No,’ he admitted. He was determined to show the same fortitude as the prince, but he could not deny what he was seeing. Thanks to the terrorgheist, the mordants were flowing freely over the battlements. As well as the ones climbing over the embrasures, there were some with wings, like smaller versions of the terrorgheist’s mighty pinions. There was no way to use the oil or war machines. ‘The walls are lost.’

He thought the prince would be outraged, but he simply nodded, pulling Aurun closer. ‘Get your men to the Unburied. I need time to think.’ He coughed and stiffened in pain, then grabbed Aurun again, his voice growing more steady. ‘Fight every inch of the way.’