The Death Plague- As above, so below

The wasting disease overtook our Dwarven "betters" in days. They dug too deep. Every Dwarf it claimed rose again to kill their fellows. Every corpse near them and the accursed stones they unearthed did likewise. The Dark Elf sorcerers, our masters, could not cure them, no matter which Demon Prince they turned to. No, this was no sickness that would meekly submit to the will of the powers of other planes. This was something else entirely. We Hobgoblins have been bred for war, but treating this as a war was folly. Before we drew steel, we had already lost. The Dwarves, stubborn fools, insisted on keeping the dead in great tombs. More dead. This plague they've released has begun to affect my warriors. The dead had to be burned or dismembered. We Hobgoblins are raised as brothers, and to take the head of your brother is never easy. Soon, we decay on the outside as well. The others won't admit it, but I can hear a voice, tells me to turn steel on my masters. Hard to deny. Can't get out.