“This one’s still alive.” Snorri leaned over Meegan and kicked him in the ribs. “Out cold, though.” He looked over at me with an appreciative grin. “You saved a small one for questioning like you promised.”

“All part of the plan,” I grunted, shifting my corpse another three inches. He was the spearman. Thankfully he lay facedown. His passage across the rocks had left a red smear where I’d dragged him. I clutched him below the hand, not wanting to touch his warm dead fingers.

“I’ll sort out the others.” And Snorri headed off to deal with any of the fallen from his initial attack who hadn’t yet fallen far enough.

“No, I’m fine. Don’t trouble yourself.” I got no reply—with Snorri already out of earshot and the rest of my audience dead or unconscious, my sarcasm was wasted. “Heave!” and I heaved again. The corpse slid forwards another three inches. Dead fingers moved against my skin, a convulsion of them like spider legs flexing, stroking down the veins and tendons in my wrist. I nearly let go fast enough, but the hand clasped me as I unclasped it, the dead man lifted his head, and the ruin of his face gaped a crimson grin at me, white skull visible beneath flapping flesh. Fear lends a man strength, but so too does being dead, apparently. I wrenched hard enough to drag the spearman a whole extra yard, but it didn’t win me free, just brought him close enough to reach for my throat. I managed half a scream before dead fingers, still warm, cut it off with an iron grip.

It’s not until you’ve actually been throttled that you realize how terrible it is. It doesn’t take enormous strength to seal your air off completely—and the dead man’s strength was enormous. When you’re denied a breath, then all of a sudden breathing is the only thing you’re interested in. I clawed at the wrist beneath my chin, dug at the fingers, but if a face can kiss Snorri’s axe and still find a smile, then fingernails aren’t going to mean much. I planted a foot on the dead thing’s shoulder and pushed for all I was worth. It felt as though my throat would be ripped from my neck, but the grip wasn’t released. Black spots began to grow in my vision, joining at the edges to make a wall of darkness. Blinding cracks ran through the black, my heart hammered behind its cage of ribs, and the stink of burning flesh filled my nostrils even though I could draw no air into them.

And then, as suddenly as the hand had seized me, it was gone. Snorri loomed over me, gripped under my armpits, and hauled me clear. If my throat hadn’t been so well lubricated with terror-sweat I suspect I would have seen it still clutched in the dead man’s fingers, red and dripping.

Snorri snatched up his axe while I sucked air through the straw that being choked had left me with. The dead man stood, still grinning amidst the butchered remains of his face, and raised his hands towards us, the wrists and forearms curiously burned, wisps of smoke still lifting from them. Snorri made to advance, but two figures tackled him from the rear. He staggered, desperate to keep his footing. Two of his victims clung to him, blood still oozing from the fatal wounds his axe had given them.