by A Uscila
Traversing a muddy forest road - the procession seemed to have stretched out during their time on it. Eight full wagons pulled by sullen horses, accompanied by at least sixty armed men. Their gender a no more than a presumption, since it was quite hard to tell - seeing as all of them were over-zealous in their attempts to hide beneath the large pieces of cloth. In complete silence did this procession journey onwards - be it out of fear or due to circumstance. Since out-yelling the howling wind would indeed be quite the challenge. And yet - there did seem to be those that dared to do exactly that.
“Fuck this job!” - One of the traveling individuals shouted, no longer able to contain the curses within his little mind. Nerves unable to take the constant pummeling of nature - “If only I won the lottery or something! Then I wouldn’t need to drag my ass through razors to maintain a roof over my head!” - He roared through clenched teeth, cursing his fate within and without - loud enough to out-do the howling wind.
“If only pigs flew!” - A nearby comrade in suffering whistled a similar tune in a mocking manner, attempting to mimic his colleague, with overflowing sarcasm. Shooting out numerous angry stares out from beneath his cloak, which wrapped around the head tightly as if to provide some sort of a desperate respite.
“Did you grow up under a rock or something? That didn’t even make sense - pigs are the best mammal flyers out there!” - Another colleague decided to intervene. Braving the wild. Challenging the howling wind. Humiliating a colleague.
Quite a few companions squeezed out a chuckle or two to that - though none of them heard the other. All of it ending up in self-satisfaction.
Being knocked down in such an overly-mean manner, the sarcastic fellow was left with no other choice but to cower his head with renewed fervor. Seems like against superior numbers offense can’t possibly be the best defense. On the contrary - in such circumstances, keeping your mouth shut ends up as the most sensible choice.
Obviously, catching a colleague by the tail in such a manner does serve as the perfect opportunity for a follow-up. A doors-open situation to make fun or vent any withheld grievances.
Luckily for the self-induced victim - an unexpected development saved his hide, in a way.
“Who goes there!?” - An armed fella, who was serving as a forward guard shouted out - while approaching a lone figure that barred his way.
Of course - barred was quite an overstatement. Considering that the fellow was just standing around at the side of the road. His back turned to the approaching procession. A ragged, slumping figure. Arms dangling helplessly at the sides. Torn clothes fluttering about at the tune of the relentless wind. Seeing as all the clothes on him were torn up as if he was a victim of a molester - one could only feel pity. After all - the weather was quite unwelcoming for light clothing.
Regardless - the forward guard seemed too bored and irritated for empathy.
“You deaf or something? I asked you a question!” - He repeated while approaching the lone figure. Forcefully grabbing the poor fella by the shoulder in a twisting motion. All to force a reaction. That and make this uncultured brute face him during a conversation. Or at least a monologue. Was a meager amount of courtesy too much to ask?
Before the motion could be finished, the guard suddenly retracted his hand - as if this drifter was too hot to the touch. Or too cold. Like in some sort of a cliché movie moment - the skies above gave way to the moonlight. All to shine down upon the lone figure for a few moments. Skin as white as ivory, scarred and mutilated. Ugly to behold. One didn’t need to be a genius to comprehend what was about to take place.
“Undead!” - The guard roared in alarm. In a swift motion he reached towards the hilt of the sword - which hung by his waist. Awaiting its’ use.
Sadly - none of it could be accomplished in time, for the road-side hugger finally decided to react. As if activated by the combination of touch and moonlight - he turned and pounced upon the poor man. Jaw stretched out beyond human capabilities - revealing a set of…five broken teeth. Threatening to massage a shoulder with rotten gums.
Cold, bloodless fingers dug into the leather that the guard wore - and the unloving corpse chomped on the previously mentioned shoulder. A shoulder that was covered by a leather pad. Plenty of damage that will do.
“Shit! The fuck are you waiting for?! Get this thing off me!!” - The poor fella roared at the stunned colleagues. Colleagues who were supposed to react to the new threat, instead of standing in place as if movement demanded too much brainpower.
Seeing as the undead leaned on the guard with all of its weight - what meager amount of it there was, the victim had no choice but to forget about the sword. Since he first needed to get that moving pile of rotting flesh off himself. Thus - with a leather fist - he started to pound upon the skull of the offender. Desperate for some much deserved freedom.
Soon enough - the rest of his fellow man jumped in to help. Chopping the corpse to bits and pieces in synchronic unison. Quite the show. Though the threatened victim did not seem completely satisfied with that ending. Seeing as he was busy emptying the modest contents of his stomach at the side of the road. Clothes stained with flesh and blood. At least none of it belonged to him.
Quite the harmless ambush that was - at least in a physical sense. Heck, it even served as a service - seeing as those that participated in the hacking competition were busy exchanging pointers and experiences. Laughter and merry-making lifted onwards by the wind.
Not long did that last.
“Hey…guys...” - The fellow, who was supposedly ignorant of the aerial capabilities of pigs practically whined - while his eyes were frozen towards the dark woods that surrounded their position. Jaw slightly open, as if there was going to be a continuation of what he was going to say.
Words were unnecessary though. Everybody present here had eyes of their own - and all of them seemed frightened just as much. Except the bloodstained fool, who was still dazed after all that vomiting.
Slowly, but surely - a myriad of figures were limping out of the woods. Clawing their way towards the location of the caravan. Along the whole stretch of it - shouts of pain and anger, orders of rally and the blowing of horns could be heard. Battle was already commencing and a short and exciting encounter was about to turn into a nightmare.
*******
“Rally! To me! To me!” - An ear-numbing roar echoed throughout the forest, as a valiant figure attempted to gather those present to a single location. To regroup and somehow create at least a meager amount of an organized defense. A human. Caucasian - with a barely visible tan. Broad face, sharp facial features - a pair of soul-piercing eyes. Short black hair, a barely visible buzz. Tall. Bulky. Without a doubt - an extremely generic individual within Alternative Reality. He wore chainmail upon leather - a round wooden shield and an axe was as his choice of weaponry.
He continuously shouted the same command over and over again - as those around continuously flocked to his position. Which was already being overrun by undead.
Not on his watch. As one of their rotten carcasses was hacked apart by the same valiant individual - his axe wielded with astonishing swiftness. A faint red light trailing behind with each overpowering strike.
“Rally! And gather the horses!” - He shouted once again, adding an additional command all of a sudden. One that was a little too late. Seeing as a number of them were already ripped apart at each end of the procession - while the rest were close to such an end. Beset by rotten flesh, and arrows - flying out from the woods around. A number of them targeting the same horses that this rallying man wanted to save.
Things did seem quite grim at first glance - but only to an inexperienced commander. Since they were overrun only on the sides - as everyone abandoned their positions and flocked to the middle of the caravan. Gathering into a tight position - and successfully disposing of all the undead that flocked to their location.
Led by the valiant axe wielding warrior, it did seem that large casualties were going to be avoided.
In ad
dition - he wasn’t the only noticeable figure in the midst of this formidable force.
A shinning fellow was rampaging along the left flank. Literally - as he was covered by a transparent purple sphere. Seemingly impervious to all physical attacks - projectiles and melee weapons bouncing off its magical surface.
A robed fellow was present within the purple sphere - wielding a pole weapon. A long, single edged blade upon its tip. As if the sphere wasn’t enough - the same purple light covered the weapon as well. Each swing leaving after-images - purple shadows that faded from existence within seconds.
His robes fluttered in the wind - as this dashing fellow roamed the battlefield. Swiping his pole-weapon everywhere, rending flesh and bone alike with equal ease. Contrary to the displayed speed and skill - his looks were quite lacking. Medium height, a bald head with a few strands of white hair - accompanied by a white beard that stretched down to his waist. Skinny, outwardly frail even.
An obvious display of a stereotypical Asian martial arts experts. Heck, even the weapon was extremely similar to the Japanese naginata.
With equal ease, though different levels of enjoyment did the two outstanding figures participate in the battle - keeping the tide of battle to their favor. Victory - all but certain, as the various forces of un-death fruitlessly crashed against the wall of man-flesh. Swords, spears and axes cutting down all of them without a single drop in efficiency.
Yet the undead kept advancing - guided by an unseen force. Unfazed by the heavy loses - seeing as morale was an unfamiliar notion to their blank minds.
Be it clattering bare bones, crawling upper bodies, stumbling piles of rotten flesh or mangled corpses - in varied forms and levels of performance they advanced. Ramming against the immobile defenses with claw, broken bone or steel with equal effort.
*******
All of which brought a smile, brimming with satisfaction to a dark figure that stood stealthily within the wood beyond. Observing all that went about on the road. He melded into the shadow perfectly - most of which was due to the dark skin tone and black robes. Heck, all of it due to it. He was a one man show - all of that visible satisfaction wasted on his surroundings - as none could see nor understand.
That includes the thirty or so piles of shambling bone - who stood in three neat rows behind. Resurrected bones - held together by twisted dark arts. They stood in complete silence, occasionally interrupted by the creaking joints, strained under their own weight. Bows were held within their bony claws and quivers filled with arrows hung from their bare ribcages. Every single one - waiting.
Wave after wave of undead rushed towards their inevitable doom - every single one guided by the will of this dark figure. Serving as nothing more than puppets. Toys for the amusement and sacrifices for the fulfillment of shrouded goals.
He looked upon the steadily widening ranks of those defending - as they pushed outwards. Blinded and lost to their own overly obvious success. Their ranks thinning out after each bested undead. After each body laid back to rest.
Not long did they enjoy their success - for the dark figure finally made his move. In an overdone motion - he lifted both of his hands upwards, only to make the very air shudder. Moments away - the land shuddered beneath the feet of those defending. Quickly, it withered away - turning into a dark and infested land, which spread in a circle. Encompassing all, who stood their ground so confidently. Who, in their naivety, thought that they were going to achieve victory so easily.
Oh how wrong they were.
As the blackened land spread around in a wide circle - those who were slumbering in an eternal rest, suddenly rose up. Attacking all who were in close proximity - turning the organized battlefield into pure chaos. Men panicked, screams echoed - ranks fell apart. What was once a steady advance of men standing shoulder to shoulder - turned into a massacre. A feast for the mad. A bloodbath.
Chapter 36
“To me!” - Roared a valiant figure of overly large proportions, while swinging about an axe wielded by muscled arms - dismembering bone and cutting apart flesh with each overbearing cut. Unholy constructs of rotten flesh and broken bone falling apart after each one, gathering under his feet as if a bloody offering to a God. For he was indeed like a messenger of one in this battlefield. Unstoppable. Undefeatable. Uncompromising. An indomitable existence in the center of a sea of carnage where blood poured like wine and groans and shouts rang like music, accompanied by the clamor of steel.
As one more unloving monstrosity crumbled to the ground - its head rolling off into the distance, he jumped to the left. Slamming his shield into another foe that dared to approach. He put his shoulder into the attack - slamming a worm-eaten ribcage with excess force, completely shattering the undead into pieces. Obviously overdone - as even a tenth of the used strength seemed to be enough for the job. Yet he exerted all of it with each attack, wasting energy on this seemingly endless wave of undead.
“To me!” - Yet he had to. He had to put down as many foes as possible, since every felled foe would be one less foe for his men to worry about. At least eight of them already stood in close proximity - battling undead with visible strain, the numbers of those attacking welling up with each passing moment. At least two shambling corpses pouncing upon one breathing victim.
Only two though. For it was much worse to the right of their position - a circle of complete and utter chaos. Where the living and undead were completely intermixed. Fighting upon a blighted ground, littered with blood and body parts. Yet not one deceased. Not one dead body. A strange observation - though an easily explainable one, since an example was already taking place.
At least eight blood-covered corpses were busy mutilating a desperately resisting man - his body already littered with cuts and bruises. Death’s cold embrace moments away, already seemingly inevitable.
Just as the last four stabs penetrated his body, his knees finally gave in - life draining away together with the blood that left through his wounds. And as soon mortality finally caught up, his eyes lit up in a strange red glimmer. Before even a moment of rest in eternal slumber, he stood right back up, only to jump on another victim - together with those that killed him.
Oh yes. Every person killed upon the blighted circle that covered the land – its outline a few meters away from the valiant figure that desperately attempted to gather his men - were turned into undead minions. Cursed to attack and murder those who they might have considered as brothers and sisters in arms before leaving for a much colder place.
“To me!” - The valiant figure shouted once more. A desperate attempt. A desperate cry. Futile, beyond doubt. Since all of his men, who were still trapped within that cursed circle - no longer had a way to escape. Most of the survivors were tightly gathered in the very middle of it - surrounded by a mass of moving corpses. Their strained bones creaking with every move, with every interaction with a neighbor. Blood and flesh dripping down their mangled figures. A dreadful sight, without a doubt - so dreadful that those surviving couldn’t help but whimper and cry for mercy, for help - be it from their Gods, their common living or from anyone else. Even from a force of evil.
Purple light flashed - and at least three corpses were cut in half right next to the axe wielding figure - as a skinny old man quickly approached, glancing at the tired expressions of the men present. He wore a long dark robe that danced around in the wind - together with his lean white beard that reached down to the waist.
“Borg, we need to get the hell out of here. This is a lost cause - these troublesome undead are endless” - Obvious irritation could be heard in the voice of this new arrival - his furrowed brows barely visible through the purple sphere that he was in. He swung his pole weapon about - skewering and cutting apart undead flesh as if through butter. Paying more attention to his colleague than the enemies around - seemingly unfazed by the strained atmosphere.
“God damn it, we’re not abandoning this quest, let alone my men! If we fail, the setback will ruin months of hard work!” - Irritation see
med to be a contagious thing, as the axe-wielding fellow’s voice seemed full of it as well. His eyes flashing with a glare towards the stereotypical Asian martial artist. As if to vent - he quickly jumped towards two approaching corpses and literally cut them apart with a myriad of swings - a barely visible red light trailing behind each swing of the axe.
“Oh come on, it’s not like we’re planning on doing anything else. Another month or two of the same won’t really matter. Plus I have a week off and I’m not planning on losing twenty-four hours of Alternative Reality just because you’re too stubborn to give up on a lost cause!” - Purple flashed once more, as the old man thrusted towards another approaching foe - slicing off a head with a light twist of the wrist.
A barely audible “thank you” escaping the lips of an exhausted colleague - who was desperately fighting right next to the two. One of the eight survivors who managed to escape the before mentioned circle of doom.
Borg turned his head towards the right - visibly weighting his morals against common sense.
At the very middle of the blighted circle - those alive were now squeezed against each other like sardines. Desperately clinging to life as the mass of undead all around slowly pressured their lines. Slowly squeezing the life out of them - as even breathing space seemed to shrink down.
A curse was practically spat out through clenched teeth, as Borg finally turned his head away and started moving towards the dark woods to their left. A bare few lumbering figures leaving its dark shroud - moving towards the road on which all this conflict took place.
“Fine, let’s go” - Borg said, only to tear his way through the undead with renewed vigor.
To the over-due decision - the old man could only smile in satisfaction, darting in pursuit soon after. Eight exhausted figures closely following behind the two. A pile of unmoving corpses left in their trail.
They did not go far. After fighting through a bare ten meters - quite the unwanted welcoming stopped their advance. Slipping out of the shroud of darkness beyond - a barrage of arrows assaulted their position. Littering the eight surviving men with new holes - turning the poor bastards into porcupines.
