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The Black Gates are
opened, and Coreaux stands on the brink of victory. Yet even as his divine help
is removed, the enemy army moves to attack … Meanwhile, Jean has reached
Mousillon, leaving Arkhor to deal with a group of skaven. But is he too late?
If was to describe zombies in general,
the best description would be “rotting”. But, alas, you cannot describe
zombies, for every one is different: did you want to give an accurate mental
image; the best method of doing so would be to describe every one individually.
Some
still had all their flesh attached; others were missing limbs. Others looked
drained of blood, some still bled. Skin was torn off some, while others had a
nigh-perfect body, except for a large dent in their skull.
Their
colours varied, their rank was different. Some had pallid flesh; others had
purple, rotting hides. Some wore ornate clothes, others rags. Some were Man at
Arms; others were knights. The list goes on … it would take a thousand years
and more to describe every zombie there was in that great shambling horde.
And
now every undead warrior marched forwards, determined to end the Coreaux’s
crusade. There were millions, all clutching weapons of some sort, whether they
were bones or rusted swords.
Coreaux
looked back, to see the Men at Arms began to falter, and flee …
+++++
Jean did not hesitate. His sword
smashed a zombie’s spine, and damaged the next creature’s skull. One down: nine
to go. But the zombies simply would not die. Whatever magic was holding them together,
it was powerful.
However,
they were slow, and even zombies die eventually, albeit often from being hacked
up into pieces too small to allow any movement.
It
took about ten minutes before Jean was surrounded by a small heap of zombie
pieces. He was panting heavily, yet took the opportunity to survey his
surroundings.
He stood
in a cold room that looked like a storage room for some sort of inn. However,
it was long abandoned: there was no beer in the barrels, and rats ran about
like pet dogs. Was it the innkeeper there on the floor, lying in a dozen pieces
all over his ruined flagstones?
Jean
shuddered, and started up the nearby steps to find out how the battle was
progressing …
+++++
Arkhor smiled as the skaven vanished into the
distance. They may betray him, of course, yet he doubted it. He hoped he had
taught them a lasting lesson.
And, with
luck, the skaven would aid his cause in the battle to come, or at least not
hinder him …
His face
twisted into a curious, malicious grin as he sped into a side tunnel, towards
the citadel of Mousillon …
+++++
When you see undead walking towards you, it is not
merely bile rising in your throat that will grip a mortal. For there always
lurks in the human mind a (perhaps subconscious) fear: one of them could be one
of their relatives. And worse, you will know when you see such horrific
perversions of nature that you are destined to be like that, in the end.
It is
said people are more terrified of trolls than zombies, yet those who have not
seen zombies in the flesh, and known that mind-numbing fear say that.
Perhaps
that may be the case for individual zombies or trolls, yet zombies do not come
in ones or twos. They come in hordes … thousands.
And when
a mortal man sees a city crammed full of zombies, he’s not going to hang around
for long.
And so it
was that the grand host of Coreaux began to flee …
Adrukh watched, helpless, as the host began to turn
and run for their lives. His knights wavered, uncertain: they had a life-debt
to fulfil; yet they did not wish to be pulled down by countless zombies, and
eaten alive.
He could
see Coreaux, still lying on the floor. And it was that which changed his mind.
If the day was to be won, now was the time. His voice seemed to split the air
asunder, and fleeing commoners and knights alike turned to watch him.
Adrukh
mounted his horse, and waited for his knights to follow suit. “Mount up,
knights of the Empire! For this day, we cannot fail! Will we die in dishonour,
leaving our saviour to perish on these barren lands? No, we will not! For we
are the knights of the bear, and we shall know no fear!
“By Taal,
we shall remain firm, and by all the gods we hold dear, we shall fight or die!
“Men of
the Empire mount up, for today we die, and we die in honour!”
Adrukh’s
horse reared up, one last time before the zombies reached them, and his voice
was like stone, his appearance akin to that of a great bear as he roared his
last command. “Charge!”
All over the barren wasteland, men turned to watch
that last gamble, the final charge to rescue one who had saved them from
destruction.
Peasants
stopped fleeing to observe this fateful movement. Yet none turned. None aided
the doomed knights. It was like watching a wave crash upon rocks: they knew
little would be left.
For the
zombies would soak up the charge like a sponge: they needed a horrendous amount
of damage to kill.
It is not said in vain that knights will honour a
life-debt, for none can doubt that that is what those knights did that day.
They
crashed into those undead in a flurry of final retribution, and when their
lances speared the unholy abominations, the zombies did not rise again. For the
Lady blessed them that day, and it is said it was as a great light surrounded
them, throwing back the blackness of evil and throwing off the chains of duty.
Their
momentum took them deep into the heart of the enemy’s formation. And they did
not falter, even as their fellow warriors were cut down around them. Swords
fell like great axes from a dark hell, and shields seemed to block impossibly
powerful strokes without harm.
But for
every dead zombie, there was another two ready to step up and take its place.
The charge could not go on forever. That golden moment could not continue for
eternity, though it may have seemed as if it did.
One by
one, they fell. Slowly yet growing in speed the knights were cast from their
horses and their miseries ended.
Yet as
defeat was dawning, a new stroke took the undead completely by surprise.
Adrukh was kneeling by Coreaux when it happened. A
zombie came from behind, and stabbed him in the chest. The proud warrior’s life
was ended, and a great cry of lamentation and sorrow went up among the knights.
Yet the
noble warrior did not die in vain. For his blood spilt, and some landed on
Coreaux’s face. The features twitched. Slowly, the eyes opened, showing
snakelike eyes with pupils like slits.
The lips peeled back, revealing sharpened fangs in the vampire that had
finally succumbed to its bloodthirsty nature.
Coreaux
stood, and around him knights looked amazed at his raising … his transformation
was not visible from that distance.
With
blood pumping life into his cursed veins, Coreaux did not stop and think. He
knew what he had to do. Like a juggernaught, he ploughed through the zombies,
knocking them to the floor. He needed no sword, for his brute strength was
enough.
The
zombies were knocked aside, leaving a clear path to the citadel. Yet as they
began to reform, the knights rallied yet again, and charged through in their
leader’s wake …
+++++
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