The dead will serve" was the decision, as we endure Fimbulvetr and prepare for Ragnarok. And so they do.

Look at the shambling line, a trickle compared to the river of decaying bodies that march in phalanxes up and down the ramp, wider than a parade ground, to the main shaft, carrying up coal, iron, copper. The cold slows their movements, but their sheer number makes up for it - and slows the advance of putrefaction just as our swordsmen and artillerists slow the encroaching swarm. Maybe it will be enough, in both cases.

This line follows a glowworm path, luminescent runes large and simple enough for their clouded eyes to follow; those without eyes, and those who lead them, bear their thin guiding chains as a tree might bear ivy. The ones that can walk carry the ones that have stopped, in the same wheelbarrows used for ore.

Crude helmets bolted to head or skull bear notches; every time a restoration is needed, another notch is made. Even the necromancers had to bend the knee to mathematicians; like food, or wood, or anything else, blood and power is scarce. Reanimate a warrior to have a worker; reanimate the worker again when it fails. Up to the allotted number of times, divined and inscribed, for maximum efficiency; sorcery of diminishing returns.

The workers with one notch, in the gloom, look alive enough to be recognizable, if family was ever allowed in the mine. Living family, anyway. It has been tried to put fallen brothers in the same chain gang. The numbers say half percent greater yield. The implications, the necromancers don't care, and everyone else tries to not think about it. The souls are gone; it is repeated every day, to every grieving widow, every time with the same cold words.

The workers with two notches are the majority. They've lost toes, noses, jaws. Unimportant for the task. Lighter. Streamlined. Efficient.

The workers with three or four notches have picks, spades, crowbars tied or stapled to their forearms, the fingers no longer worth keeping. They can still serve.

The workers with five notches, there's barely enough left to push a cart, or move a bellows where motive power can't yet reach. They, too, can still serve.

Past that, there is finally rest. Bones to powder, any meat left to slurry, that plants may live and feed us. The necromancers remove the taint they applied. This, too, is repeated every day, every time with the same cold words.

"Eight notches? Looks... pretty intact, considering. Why are we keeping it?"

"She's a volunteer."