Dawn broke to find the combined forces of Norscan and Ironborn advancing in disciplined wedges towards the obelisk. The Seafang soared slowly above them, the Morathi's Hand dangling from it, the remaining Ironborn mutes having taken positions on both ships. The wind was not yet searing, and the Silence only needed to be at half-sail to keep up with the footsoldiers below.
Akkarulf looked at the obelisk with wonder. Tall as a castle wall, it shimmered like liquid gold as the rising sun struck it. He had not noticed it in the twilight, but now he could see that the monolith's surface was not smooth but carved with intricate figures. No masonry he had ever seen showed such skill.
A hoarse bellow echoed through the still air as Harald Hammerstorm issued his challenge. For a minute all remained still, and suddenly the sand itself swirled and swayed like a rough sea. As Akkarulf watched in fascination, great formations of skeletal warriors armed with shields and spears rose slowly from the sands like sunken statues revealed by a falling tide.
The Hammerstorm's forces did not wait for them to fully emerge but hurled themselves screaming at the undead, the Ironborn following an instant later.
At the center of the melee was the giant warrior the Wolf called the Hammerstorm, who fully lived up to his name. He was a vortex in the middle of the undead horde, his ancient warhammer rising and falling with the same untiring movements as the dead themselves. Akkarulf even saw some of the skeletons turning and running from him only to be cut down by his retinue.
His warriors were no less efficient, swinging their weapons with such brutality that few skeletons remained whole after an attack. The dragonglass weapons of the Ironborn landed with less force, but hardly needed it: a single strike sufficed to cleave through bone, and some outright crumbled under the assault. The Iron Islanders needed no encouragement to make up for their absence at Winterfell and hurled themselves into the melee with equal ferocity to the marauders.
The Silence followed leisurely above, Ironborn archers taking idle potshots with flaming arrows from the railings of the Silence and the Morathi's Hand. The Wolf had instructed them to save their dragonglass for the most richly-dressed skeletons, and though they chafed at the order they obeyed it scrupulously. The elf captain had been gagged and struggled fruitlessly against the bonds keeping him tied to the mast.
Akkarulf looked at the battle and frowned. Not one Ironborn had yet fallen. Surely the Wolf didn't consider this a battle that would bring the attention of the gods on the Ironborn?
"Is this all they have, yarrl?"
"Hardly. We've taken them by surprise, those are just there to buy time while their worthier soldiers claw their way up through the sands. It's good exercise... What'd I tell you."
Near the base of the obelisk, stone slabs taller than a man slid down. From the tomb, great flapping shapes were emerging into the morning light and taking to the air.
They resembled buzzards, but like no scavengers Akkarulf had ever seen: a wingspan dwarfing any bird's, haphazardly covered in bandages, and only partially fleshed and feathered. They were ungainly on the ground, but their immense claws looked able to crush a man's skull with ease.
"Archers! Get the birds!"
At Akkarulf's command, the Ironborn archers sent a volley of arrows at the flock. Still the grim scavengers flew higher, powering through the storm. One or two fell when a lucky arrow sliced through a leathery tendon connecting the wing to the body, another when the weight of arrows embedded in its wings caused it to plummet groundwards, but the rest of the swarm powered through and was soon on the ships.
The Wolf uttered an inhuman screech. The Silence turned ponderously about, smashing a pair of birds unable to dodge in time on its hull, then the birds were able to perch on the railings, striking at the Norscans and Ironborn with beak and talon.
The Ironborn denied battle against the skeletons set to repelling the boarders with great enthusiasm. Dragonglass blades rose and fell endlessly, chopping noises covered by the hissing of the rancid beasts. The Wolf produced his own birdcalls at a particularly large specimen nearly his size and whose wings spanned larger than the breadth of the ship. It flapped and tried to strike at him, but was tangled in the ship's lines, and was dispatched with contemptuous ease by the giant.
Akkarulf took a look below. Their ground forces did not seem much diminished but the skeletons continued to emerge from the sands.
Two slabs of stone were hinging upwards at the base of the monument, revealing pits into the sand. From each pit rose a catapult that seemed to have been carved from bone, flanked by skeletons and covered in skulls. As Akkarulf watched with unease, the catapult's payload of skulls burst into flames without any of the crew setting a torch to them, and the machine launched them into the marauders. A horrifying scream filled the air, soon echoed by some of the marauders as they found themselves engulfed in flames.
The other catapult pivoted until it was directly facing the Silence.
"Aron! Now!"
The bolt lanced from the Silence's fore ballista just as the skulls left the catapult's arm. It smashed into a skeleton just as the flaming skulls smashed into the deck, setting it on fire.
"Put that out, hurry!"
Crewmen rushed forward with wet sailcloth to extinguish the flames. Akkarulf looked down. To his horror, the other catapult was now rotating towards them, while the first catapult's crew was reloading another batch of skulls.
"Aron, the other one! To starboard, now!"
The Silence groaned and turned ponderously as the starboard sails were furled, the elf-ship beneath it swinging wildly. Akkarulf's maneuver had avoided one swarm, but the other hit the Morathi's Hand amidships. The ballista loosed again, and this time struck true, smashing the catapult's arm on impact.
A warhorn sounded thrice. One of the shipboard marauders dropped the horn and pointed eastward, yelling excitedly. Akkarulf looked to the dunes, where the sand was pouring away from another army of skeletons. These were not the long-dead men being slaughtered by the dozen but horses, and as he looked further, chariots emerging behind them as well, each mounting a pair of richly-adorned corpses.
Far below, the Norcans did not seem to have heard the signal, for they ignored the chariots assembling on their flank. The Ironborn continued to strike down skeletons with every blow, but it seemed to Akkarulf they were starting to flag.
"Now is the time, Ironborn! Bring down the chariots!"
Dragonglass arrows flew through the air, bringing down skeletal riders and horses alike. The charioteers did not slow or change direction save to avoid a stalled chariot, but several drew bows and fired while their driver whipped the wight-horses.
Arrows flew upwards, to the silent mockery of the Ironborn, which quickly became horror as the arrows did not fall but continued far beyond what bow and string should have allowed. The Iron Islanders took refuge behind shields and marauders, but the arrows turned swiftly as snakes mid-flight to strike their targets. The Druchii whimpered as an arrow buzzed past his nose to bury itself in an Ironborn's thigh. Akkarulf saw the Wolf pause in wringing the neck of a buzzard to emit a horrid snarl.
The Silence dropped like a stone, Akkarulf feeling his stomach rise within his body. The Morathi's Hand smashed into the first ranks of chariots, scattering them into those behind, but those at the sides and the rear flowed around the obstacle, firing arrows that curved and dodged around anything the Ironborn tried to use as cover. The dragon's head prow screamed, but the ropes and chains connecting the ships held firm.
The chariots still thundered towards the melee, but their momentum was checked. Harald's retinue had formed a shieldwall and the chariots were quickly bogged down. Behind the skeletal warriors now rose tight companies of archers, armed with nothing but their bows, who sent an unending volley of arrows into the battle. Akkarulf's blessed eyes saw the arrows twist and turn to avoid the skeletons. The Ironborn archers could not loose into the melee for fear of hitting their own men, but tried to pick off stragglers or send volleys into the archers.
Despite the arrows sticking out of his arm, Aron took careful aim and triggered the Silence's ballista, smashing the second catapult just before it fired. The burning skulls launched skyward and landed on a block of skeleton archers, crushing them.
"Ha! The Raven God is with us, yarrl!"
Akkarulf looked down. Another group of archers rose from the sands near the Ironborn. He thought them easy prey for their dragonglass blades, and judging by the grins on their faces, so did they. But as he watched, a swirling wind tore about the dead, casting up a cloud of sand that lifted up and came down to earth dozens of feet away. The dust faded, revealing the skeletons, who pulled up their bows and began mechanically sending arrows into the Ironborn, who could only charge under the storm.
"Yarrl! They're using magic!"
"You don't say! Have you heard tell that water is wet?"
The Silence rose again, now drifting towards the obelisk. The Wolf, still holding a buzzard's corpse in one hand, glared upwards.
"There you are, you withered old bonebag. Akkarulf! See that one up there?"
Akkarulf looked to where the Wolf pointed. A platform emerged two-thirds of the way up the obelisk, a square of darkness leading within, and there he saw another risen corpse, not a bare skeleton but desiccated skin stretched over visible bones, and even more elaborately attired than the charioteers. Its head was covered in an magnificent gold mask that glinted in the morning light. The figure held both hands raised to the sky, one hand holding a snake-headed staff.
In the distance below, a group of archers seemed to glow with inner light, and their movements accelerated, sending ever more volleys into the battle. Sand shifted around them as even more archers unburrowed themselves to join their comrades.
Akkarulf nocked a dragonglass arrow to his bow when the Wolf's sword lopped off the arrowhead. The Silence continued to rise, now halfway up the obelisk.
"Yarrl?"
"I don't want him dead- well, dead-er, yet. Pincushion him if you must, but no dragonglass or fire until I say so."
Akkarulf looked at the arrow. It would be completely off-balance now, though he thought it undiplomatic to point this out. He took up a new wooden one and took careful aim.
The arrow took flight and pinned the wight's hand to its staff. It visibly startled, emitting what Akkarulf took to be a curse. The Silence was now close enough to the platform that the Wolf jumped across and punched the mummy square in the jaw. Several of the Wolf's marauders joined him, two of them restraining the corpse.
"Lower the anchor! Hurry!"
The Ironborn rushed to drop the anchor into the waiting arms of a pair of marauders, who visibly bent under the weight until the Wolf gripped it. The three Norscans dropped the anchor inside the doorway, while the Wolf screeched and hissed at the Silence. The ship obediently descended, and a pair of marauders set down the gangplank to the platform. The Wolf raised his voice to be audible from both ships.
"And now the hard part, Ironborn! I want you to strip those chambers bare. If it's shiny, if it's pretty, it goes on the ship. There shouldn't be too many traps up here, but be wary. Touch nothing with your bare hands."
The Wolf turned to the wight as the Iron Islanders put down their bows to pick up sacks, filing inside the obelisk. The giant yanked the death mask from the wizard's head, revealing papery skin and sunken eyes. He said something in a dry and wheezing tongue, punching it again when the mummy responded. Its jaw had been dislocated on the right side, dangling ghoulishly. The Wolf drew his sword and lopped off the mummy's hands.
One of the marauders started pulling the rings off the severed hand, breaking the fingers off when they continued to curl into a fist. Another picked up the wight's staff and ripped the impaled hand from it.
"Hmmm..."
The Wolf turned to one of the Ironborn.
"You. Grocon, was it?"
The mute nodded, looking puzzled.
"Ever wanted to cut out a wizard's tongue?"
The Ironborn looked elated, drawing his knife, the Wolf forcing the mummy's jaws open. Grocon hacked and sawed at the toughened flesh, finally ripping it out, a writhing giblet no bigger than a snail.
"Keep it. It's good luck according to some."
After a barked order, the marauders hauled their handless captive back to the ship. Akkarulf looked down at the battle.
"Um. Yarrl? I think something's happening."
Far below, two statues representing monstrous serpents topped by halberd-wielding skeletons had started moving towards the melee. Akkarulf sensed the Wolf move next to him.
"Hellsteeth! Faster than I thought. Get me the longest rope the elf-ship has! Oleg!"
An Ironborn on the Morathi's Hand tossed the Wolf a rope, while a marauder on the Silence crossed the gangplank carefully holding a small object in both hands. Akkarulf looked at it and recognized the metal flask used in the Doomdrinking ceremony, and nearly choked on the nauseating smell it emitted. The Wolf took the flask and put it with some care in a pouch at his swordbelt. The marauder wiped his hands, looking relieved.
The giant slammed one of his swords into the white stone to the hilt and tied one end of the rope to it. Holding the rope, he started climbing down without a moment's hesitation.
"Akkarulf! With me!"
Akkarulf slung his bow across his shoulder and grabbed the rope, swallowed, and started climbing down, gripping the rope with both hands. The carvings on the obelisk were even more exquisitely delicate than he thought possible, tiny figures less than a finger's width tall that looked as detailed as their man-sized counterparts.
There was a crunching noise below.
Holding on to the rope with one hand, the Wolf was methodically punching divots in the obelisk on his way down, paying no heed to the stonework he was destroying. Akkarulf slipped a foot into one, finding the descent much easier. He looked down again.
The spear-bearing skeletons were now far less numerous, some of them still fleeing the Hammerstorm, and the Ironborn were carving their way through a block of archers, having no shields to slow the massacre. But now larger shapes were emerging from the sands.
Amid the marauders, another wave of sand broke. Two monstrous pincers grabbed a man and crushed him, sand cascading off the body of a gleaming white scorpion. The beast turned, only to meet Harald's hammer, snapping a claw off with a crack of thunder. The Wolf gave a shout of approval.
The snake statues were bearing down on the melee. Haakon and Teron, two Ironborn brothers Akkarulf knew to be among the more enthusiastic converts to the Ruinous Powers, hurled themselves at one, breaking their weapons on the serpent's stone skin. The serpent's head descended, its jaws closing on Haakon, and Akkarulf saw the spasm of pain that wracked his face. But Teron leaped up, taking advantage of the serpent's mouth being full, and lunged at the rider, dragonglass sword striking at the skeleton's neck. The skull fell from the skeleton, but still the serpent thrashed, sending Teron flying.
A Chaos warrior struck it with a spiked mace, the stone chipping and cracking. At last the serpent ceased moving and rolled over, uncannily like a true snake. The warrior howled in triumph, while Teron tried to pry his brother's corpse from the serpent's maw.
At the foot of the obelisk, two small dunes trembled and shrank. A four-legged statue the size of a house, moving like a cat despite its size, clawed its way up and shook its skeletal head, sand pouring from every hole. Akkarulf had once seen a lion's head after it had been cleaned of flesh and thought the statue's head looked uncannily like one, although with the addition of a long spike at the end of its jaw. On its back it carried a howdah much like the elephants of the Golden Company. The statue's twin surfaced on the other side of the door, bearing four skeletal spearmen on its back.
Akkarulf heard and felt a grinding noise reverberating through his bones. Two immense stone doors swung outward at the base of the obelisk, and from them emerged a parade of magnificently adorned skeletons, larger and better decorated by far than their rank-and-file counterparts, wearing striped headresses and wielding short, curved blades. In their midst was another mummy with the single most decorated death mask Akkarulf had yet seen, inlaid with jewels and stripes of precious stone, and a long projection from the chin. The skeletal guard moved forward in perfect unison, preceded by another adorned skeleton holding a great banner aloft. The banner fluttered in the breeze, giving the jackal's head it represented the appearance of life.
"Akkarulf! See that banner?"
"Yes!"
"Burn it, or the corpse holding it, or both! Before they reach the battle!"
There was ledge a few feet wide that ran all the way around the obelisk. Akkarulf made his way to it and carefully set down the pitch and the tiny firepot from his belt. With a rush of panic he realized he had forgotten to light the fire before descending. Pulling out his flint, steel and tinder box, he crouched as best as he could to strike a spark when the steel fell from his hand, bounced on the ledge and fell away.
"FUCK!"
The Wolf's irritated voice made itself heard from below.
"What now!?"
"I dropped the steel!"
Akkarulf's mind filled with horror and shame. Once again, he had failed those who depended on him. Below them the legions of the dead continued to march out, the banner flapping in the breeze. Some of the skeletons near the melee reassembled themselves and stood up.
There was a clinking noise from below.
"Heads up!"
The Wolf's sword flew up and over Akkarulf, who flattened himself against the wall just in time to avoid being impaled. The sword fell to the ledge with a clang, but this time he caught it before it could bounce off. He set himself to striking sparks from the steel, and was soon rewarded with burning tinder. Hastily he dropped it into the firepot, covered a dragonglass arrowhead in pitch, and set it aflame.
Akkarulf saw Harald Hammerstorm stop beating the other serpent statue to smithereens and turn, then call to his warriors. They moved towards the advancing guardians with the same terrible purpose, leaving the Ironborn to continue hunting down the skeletal underlings. Drawing the bowstring back, he took careful aim and loosed.
The burning arrow sped through the air and struck the leading skeleton between the shoulderblades. The fire spread from ancient bandages to wood and from there to cloth. The skeleton continued forward unperturbed even as the flames roared and reduced it and its banner to cinder, just as the Norscans closed on the skeletons.
"HA! Good shot, Akkarulf! Now move!"
"Your sword, yarr-"
"I have plenty more, just drop it down! It's something you're good at!"
Though there was no obviously intentional irony in the Wolf's words, Akkarulf felt his cheeks burn as though he'd been rebuked in front of a crowd. He pulled the sword and dropped it over the ledge, gathered his gear then went back to the rope.
As he went down, sliding his feet into the indentations left by the Wolf's punches, he surveyed the battle.
One catlike statue advanced alongside the tomb's guardians, the spearmen it carried holding their weapons at the ready. The other seemed to be waiting for something. Behind the guard came a single figure, a dried-up corpse much like the wizard the Wolf had disarmed above, but instead of following them went straight for the idling statue, which knelt at his approach. The wight mounted up, and the statue stood up and headed for the melee.
At last the Wolf reached the base of the obelisk, quickly followed by Akkarulf. The giant retrieved his sword from the sands, grasped the blade halfway down and started chipping away at the carved surface, turning his back to the battle.
"Just tell me what's happening out there."
Akkarulf looked out. Harald's retinue had met the tomb guards, both sides swinging weapons with abandon. The first statue had reached the frontline, and stood on its hind legs like a frightened horse.
"The statue with spearmen on it's rearing up-"
The statue landed with a tremor that caused even the faraway Ironborn to turn around. Bodies living and dead went flying, a red mist at the statue's feet. Most of the corpses were so damaged even Akkarulf's sight could not tell how many there were.
"No need to tell me how that ended. How's Harald doing?"
"After that!? How could-"
Akkarulf stopped. The red mist dissipated, but not where a solitary figure stood defiantly.
"He's still alive!"
"Of course he is. He's been bringing true death to the dead for so long I'd be surprised he isn't barred from every afterlife there is."
Harald Hammerstorm stood against the statue and brought his weapon down on its legs. Akkarulf saw the stone crack, but to his horror, saw the fissure start to mend itself. The statue's head turned and breathed a torrent of fire, engulfing living and dead alike.
"Yarrl, the statue's fixing itself and breathing fire! How is that-"
"How far away is the other one?"
"Er-"
The second statue was bearing down on the melee, the rider had both arms outstretched and seemed to be chanting something.
"He'll be on them any second now!"
The Wolf cursed and hacked more swiftly.
Akkarulf turned back. The Wolf's sword had marred the chiseled stone, crossing out symbols contained within ovals, crude stick figures groping a line of goddesses from behind, drawn the runes of the Ruinous Powers over seated men with long, pointed beards, and drawn a gigantic phallus over a representation of a man in an ornate mask carrying a hammer and chisel.
Apparently satisfied with his handiwork, the Wolf turned around.
"There we go. Br-hrm."
The Wolf cleared his throat and roared out.
"AMUN-UESH-KHUZAN! I took the liberty of making some improvements on your design! Come see how easily the apprentice outdoes the master!"
In the distance, the mummy turned. Its head moved, first in the direction of the Wolf's defacements, then moving up, following the line of divots he'd punched in the obelisk.
It had no eyebrows, no eyes, its lips were mere flaps of skin over withered and gap-toothed gums, but Akkarulf had never seen such horror and disbelief as that dead face expressed, nor such inhuman hatred as replaced it.
The mummy screeched, its mount turning about and galloping towards the Wolf, running over several of the guardian skeletons.