Chapter 1

  The Burrows were the underground home of the Grimtails—if home was even the right word. They were not a marvel of craft or design, but a crude sprawl of caverns and twisting passages, clawed from the earth by raw effort and stubborn necessity. Unlike the dwarves, the Grimtails had never mastered the art of cutting clean stone. Rock resisted them. Stone dulled their tools and shattered their blades.

  So they settled where others would not.

  The Grimtails claimed the depths that were deemed worthless—the dirty, broken places abandoned by miners and forgotten by the surface. They carved out their lives by burrowing ever deeper into a world that did not want them—and in doing so, refused to be driven out.

  Tivric clung to the ceiling of one such tunnel, claws braced against slick stone as he peered down into the darkness below. A crossbow rested in his hands, its string drawn tight and ready.

  Tivric was a Grimtail—lean and long-limbed, with coarse fur mottled in shades of ash and rust. His powerful tail was often used to give him balance, leather armor bearing the scars of years spent in narrow tunnel fights. Claws that hooked easily into fractures, and his sharp, restless eyes had been shaped by a lifetime in the dark.

  Across the passage, barely visible through the gloom, his fellow Grimtail waited—motionless, listening, as patient as the stone itself.

  “Skorvel,” Tivric whispered, his voice swallowed by the cavern, “how much longer do you think it will be?”

  “Today,” Skorvel murmured back. “This is the day. They’ll come through this Tunnel. The Warrenlord said they’ve been tracking them from the underground lakes.”

  Tivric’s gaze drifted downward again, taking in the tunnel’s grim splendor. The cavern yawned wide beneath him, rising like a cathedral of packed earth and broken stone. At its base crept a sluggish river of water, dark and slow. Moisture glazed the walls, and the air itself seemed to breathe.

  This passage was a drainway. The burrows were forever fighting the seep of the earth, water forcing its way into places it did not belong, and the Grimtails carved channels to give it somewhere else to go. In times of need, those same channels were flooded on purpose—turned from lifelines into barriers, filled to drown anything foolish enough to force its way through.

  Then the darkness shifted. The sound of bone and metal carried across the water.

  The river rippled as small waves spread outward, pushing against dirt and broken stone as something heavy waded through the current.

  “Skorvel,” Tivric whispered, tension locking his grip. “They’re here.”

  Shapes emerged from the darkness—undead forms wading through the water, silent and relentless. The skeletons moved with a wrongness that set the teeth on edge: frames of bone scraped bare and stained by filth, some whole and others missing ribs, arms, or jaws. Rusted armor hung from them in crooked pieces, fused to bone by corrosion and rot, while their swords were little more than pitted iron—dark red-brown with corrosion, their surfaces cratered and eaten through with tiny holes, edges crumbling and catching no light, no life.

  Skorvel raised the horn—a heavy thing carved from the claw of some massive beast, its surface etched with old score marks and worn smooth by generations of use—and blew.

  The sound that followed was low and steady, a bone-deep call that rolled through the drainway like distant thunder. The murky water carried it far into the tunnels, bending and echoing as it traveled. One by one, other horns answered overlapping atop one another until the Burrows themselves seemed to shudder with warning.

  From the surrounding tunnels came the Grimtails’ cries—not shrill, but sharp and purposeful. Alarm calls echoed, orders barked, feet scraped stone. The Burrows were awake, and the line was being drawn.

  Skorvel and Tivric opened fire, crossbows snapping in rapid cadence as bolts ripped into the never-ending horde below. Skeletons shattered on impact, collapsing into the murky water—five fell in the space of a breath before the rest lurched together, raising shields in clumsy, ill-trained ranks.

  It didn’t matter.

  The Grimtails kept firing, bolts threading gaps between bone and rusted iron, dropping the dead at an incredible speed..

  Then came the sound.

  A skittering scrape—claws ripping through packed earth, too close, too deliberate.

  Along both sides of the Rotway, where the river of filth lapped hungrily at the stone, metal hatches burst open. Crude bolts snapped out, followed by spearheads—thrusting and slashing into brittle bone and rotting sinew. The sudden eruption of violence drew the undead’s gaze at once.

  Two teams of Grimtail ground crews surged from the openings, clad in armor scarcely better than that worn by the dead they faced. They crashed into the oncoming wave, shattering bone and hurling bodies backward into the press.

  Snapping jaws turned.

  Bony hands clawed toward them.

  After only moments, the Grimtails began a slow, disciplined withdrawal, yielding ground inch by inch. They made a final flurry of spear thrusts as the horde surged forward, swarming the hatches in a frenzy of grasping limbs and gnashing teeth.

  Then—just before each position was overrun—the metal slammed shut. Heavy locking bars crashed into place, their harsh clangs echoing through the tunnel as the hatches sealed tight.

  Below them, the drainway was no longer clear—it darkened as filth and bone churned together in the flow.

  “Tivric,” Skorvel hissed as he reloaded with practiced speed. “We need to move. This checkpoint’s lost.”

  As if answering him, stray arrows clattered against the stone near Tivric’s harness, one sparking dangerously close to his climbing rig. The undead had pressed too close. Some were wielding bows and begun firing upward toward the ceiling now that they were within range.

  That was enough.

  Both Grimtails snapped onto their pre-rigged escape lines and released from the ceiling anchors. The stone above was studded with iron rings and old anchor points—layers of preparation laid long before this fight.

  In one fluid motion, they moved.

  Bodies inverted, they scurried along the taut horizontal line, crawling swiftly above the Tunnel. Upside down and practiced, they slid through the darkness like shadows until they reached the next hatch. They dropped together, unhooked in a single smooth motion, and slammed the hatch shut behind them.

  The lock snapped into place.

  Inside the hatch, Tivric and Skorvel sprinted down a narrow tunnel lit by rows of glow-vermin—small, blind maggot-insects bred to emit a steady, sickly light. When their glow began to fade, Grimtail children were tasked with shaking the cages to stir them. As they passed, Skorvel rattled the nearest one, brightening the passage just enough to reveal a crude metal pole bolted into the stone floor.

  Both Grimtails leapt for it and slid down into a lower level, dropping into a much wider tunnel below.

  These side tunnels were the backbone of Grimtail warfare. The enemy was drawn down the main tunnel, only to be struck from hidden angles—ambushed at prepared choke points, then abandoned as the Grimtails vanished behind reinforced metal hatches built to hold against anything that followed.

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  The passage was crowded with latchrunners—Grimtails tasked with launching sudden assaults through the hatches before falling back to the next defensive line. Some staggered past carrying wounded kin, while others moved with grim purpose toward their assigned positions.

  Their equipment varied by role. Tivric and Skorvel, assigned to ceiling-level hatches, wore light armor and climbing harnesses. Grimtails bound for the ground-level passages marched past them clad like rust-scarred knights, their dented armor heavy, patched, and worn by countless fights.

  The undead pressing into the Burrows were slow, relentless things. That weakness was the Grimtails’ advantage. Assault teams struck, withdrew, and struck again from the next hatch—repeating the cycle until the attackers were bled thin.

  Key passages were sometimes flooded to further hinder the advance. Already sluggish, the undead were forced to wade through waist-high water, their movement reduced to a crawl. While the dead lurched forward.

  It was a grim sight as they raced toward the next chokepoint. Grimtails lay hobbled along the walls—injured, broken, or missing limbs. Worse still were those who bore no visible wounds at all, their bodies whole but their minds gone, eyes hollow as if something inside them had simply… slipped away.

  Skorvel and Tivric pressed on toward their assigned tunnels, bypassing the first position entirely. Latchrunner teams rotated tunnels by design, a measured rhythm of violence and withdrawal that bought precious time—while one crew held the line, the next prepared, repositioned, fortified, and clawed back what little strength they could.

  There was a darker rule as well. If a latchrunner team reached a tunnel and found no one preparing the next line, they knew the truth. The crew ahead had been injured—or wiped out—and the position was theirs to take, whether they were ready or not.

  As they passed the first tunnel, shrill screeches and shouted commands echoed through the stone—the fighting had already begun.

  They ran on, leaving the noise behind, and passed the second passage without slowing. Farther ahead, the glow of movement marked another junction where a crew was gearing up for the next engagement. Before reaching it, Tivric and Skorvel veered into the third tunnel and climbed back to the ceiling-level passages using a crude metal pole bolted into the stone.

  At the top, Skorvel peered down the narrow passage and saw the hatch already standing open. Two Grimtails were clipped onto the runline, poised and waiting.

  Without hesitation, Tivric and Skorvel clipped their harnesses in and slid out over the open drop below, then hooked themselves on ceiling anchors and settled into position.

  As they drew closer, Tivric recognized Krelch and Varnick—two Latchrunners he had fought alongside before. Krelch always looked like he was on the verge of bolting, coiled and restless, yet he never did. Varnick, dark-furred and silent, was one of the finest crossbow shots in the Burrows.

  “How m-many did you see?” Krelch asked as Tivric slid in beside him.

  “More than you can count,” Tivric replied.

  Krelch and Varnick exchanged fearful glances, their crossbows already leveled. Once Skorvel and Tivric finished loading, all four focused on the sound in the distance—the clash of fighting echoing through the tunnels, steel and bone ringing against the stone.

  They stared into the darkness, waiting for the endless wave of undead to emerge.

  Then came the sound of splashing—loud, frantic, and far too close. For a heartbeat, Tivric wondered if the undead had somehow quickened their pace.

  Instead of a horde, a lone Grimtail stumbled into view, half-treading water as he fought to keep his footing—injured, terrified, and barely able to stay upright.

  Tivric recognized him immediately—Brimlow, one of the Grimtails assigned to the ceiling-level hatches.

  “He’s hurt,” Tivric hissed, panic creeping into his voice. “What is he doing on the ground?”

  “Look at his harness,” Skorvel said grimly.

  An arrow jutted from Brimlow’s shoulder, the shaft trembling with every unsteady step. He was half-treading water, half-stumbling, fighting to stay upright as the current pushed him toward those who wished him harm. The harness straps that should have kept him suspended above the Drainway hung torn and useless, shredded by arrow fire and trailing behind him, floating in the foul water.

  Brimlow’s eyes were wide and unfocused.

  “Poor bastard,” Skorvel muttered. “Looks like he broke his leg on the way down.”

  Brimlow lurched through the waist-deep water, every movement slow and agonizing. He dragged himself toward the next hatch, teeth bared in silent effort—but the undead were already closing in.

  “We have to get him,” Tivric said.

  “Tiv,” Skorvel snapped, anger cutting through his fear. “That rat’s already dead. He won’t reach the next team in time.”

  Tivric didn’t answer.

  Instead, he barked a quick order to the two Grimtails beside him. “Krelch. Varnick. Hold this point past your retreat time.”

  They exchanged a look—brief, grim—then nodded.

  “We are your shadows,” Varnick said, his voice steady.

  Tivric uncoiled a spare rope, snapped it into a ceiling anchor, and cast the coil into the void. As the line snapped taut, he used the momentum to swing wide—sliding a few feet down the rope before launching himself into the dark water below.

  Skorvel watched him drop, jaw tight.

  “His brain flickers like Selenar,” he muttered.

  It was a reckless move, and Skorvel knew it. But he also knew he wouldn’t stay behind. He caught the rope on its backswing and threw himself after his Tivric.

  Both Grimtails hit the water only moments apart and surged forward toward Brimlow. The current was cold, but they wore light armor and let the flow carry them, gaining speed as they went.

  Undead archers along the banks struggled to line up shots on the three of them. One arrow would have taken Brimlow if he hadn’t dipped beneath the surface for a heartbeat. Most of the archers never got the chance to fire—bolts punched through arms and skulls alike.

  Krelch and Varnick were already at work, cutting down any undead who tried to draw a bow. They prioritized those closest to Brimlow, buying precious seconds with every shot.

  As Tivric closed to within ten feet, he saw Brimlow collapse into the water.

  “Grab him—quick!” Skorvel shouted, already firing bolts into the packed mass of undead.

  Tivric reached Brimlow and hauled him upright, flipping the limp Grimtail so his face broke the surface.

  “He’s alive,” Tivric said, breathless. “Must’ve passed out from the pain.”

  Tivric dragged Brimlow’s buoyant body through the water and clipped him to his own harness, never taking his eyes off the enemy. With one hand, he fired into the horde—reloading clumsily and desperately—while fighting to keep Brimlow moving and his head above the surface.

  “We’re not moving fast enough, Tiv,” Skorvel warned. “They’re going to catch us.”

  The nearest undead lurched forward, hauling a massive broadsword and —nearly as large as a Grimtail’s body, far too heavy for any living rat to wield. Yet the dead carried them without strain, advancing without fear or hesitation, driven by a single purpose:

  To end all life before them.

  The undead were closing fast. Tivric and Skorvel stowed their crossbows and drew their knives. Tivric knew he couldn’t drag Brimlow any farther; he unhooked him, shoved him up onto the bank, and stepped back into the water. Knife in hand, he moved to Skorvel’s side, shoulder to shoulder.

  They were poorly equipped for this—light blades, little armor. Ceiling crews weren’t meant to fight on the ground.

  Still, neither hesitated.

  The first undead rushed them with an unnatural burst of speed, swinging a massive broadsword in a horizontal arc meant to take Tivric’s head clean off. He ducked just in time, the blade shrieking through the air above him.

  Before he could recover, the creature was already striking again—a brutal vertical slash, the sword dropping straight down.

  Tivric saw it coming and knew he couldn’t evade in time. He would have to block it. The thought flashed through his mind that the impact would likely shatter his arm—or his blade—and carve straight through his shoulder.

  Absurdly, as the shadow of the blade fell over him, he found himself thinking that he really didn’t want to lose his right arm.

  The sword fell with impossible speed, rusted armor clanking as it descended.

  Tivric raised his knife, holding it horizontal—the weapon suddenly feeling more like a toy than a tool of war. The broadsword dropped like a guillotine, hungry for flesh.

  Steel met steel.

  The impact was brutal—but survivable.

  Tivric blinked in shock. There was more than one blade holding the strike.

  Skorvel had lunged forward, his knife crossing Tivric’s at the last instant. The two Grimtails held the blow together, perfectly in unison.

  Once mommentum from the blow had stopped Skorval held the blade while Tivric ducked under and severed the skull from its body, witch a large burst of speed.

  There was no time to breathe. Two more undead were already upon them, weapons rising for the kill.

  The skeletons were mid swing when they were suddenly skewered by multiple spears at once—one punching up beneath Tivric’s left armplate. For a heartbeat, the violence left him disoriented. It felt, absurdly, as if he had struck the blow himself, his eyes struggling to process the sudden reversal.

  Then a wave of dented, rust-scarred Grimtail knights surged forward, smashing into the first rank of undead and tearing it apart.

  Tivric hadn’t realized the ground crew had arrived—their clanking armor drowned out by the noise of the undead.

  It was the Latchrunner ground crew, launching their assault.

  Tivric snapped his focus back to Brimlow—only to find him gone.

  The Rusted Knights pressed forward, forcing the undead back as a solid Grimtail line formed around Tivric and Skorval. Spears and blades carved through multiple rows of the dead, they were able to press the attack for a short while.

  But the inevitable followed not matter how many they slew two more would come.

  The ground crew’s captain called for the retreat. The unit held just long enough for Tivric and Skorvel to get inside the tunnel,before slipping through the hatch and slamming it shut.

  The locking mechanism snapped into place with a heavy, final clang.

  Tivric and Skorvel would run ten more Latchruns before the day was done—until, at last, the enemy broke.