Dark Age Year 871
Twenty second day of the Third month
It was shaping up to be one of those nights, it seemed. A night where not everything had gone according to plan or as he had envisioned. Tharos should have anticipated such a scenario. The possibility of an attack on the village had crossed his mind, and he had a feeling that danger loomed on the horizon for the village of Golden Apple. However, he didn’t think it would come this quickly; he thought they had at least a few days. A few days to dig in, to prepare, to investigate, but no. This foe was acting quicker than Tharos had anticipated. While his intuition had proved correct, he didn’t take pleasure in being right in such dire circumstances. In fact, who would, to be honest? Sure, there was a sort of pleasure one could get from being right; it was the pleasure of being one hundred percent certain about whatever life threw at you. It was a confidence that couldn’t be broken. For no matter what life had brought you, for good or for ill, you knew in your heart, in your very soul, that you were right.
Despite his proactive measures and efforts to address the threat, to try and mitigate the damage. he couldn’t always prevent the worst outcomes. No matter his proficiency with a blade, wisdom, intelligence, foresight, and planning, there were times when it simply wasn’t sufficient. This harsh reality was a lesson he had learned repeatedly in his youth, with the most harsh example being his inability to protect his people, the empire, and those closest to his heart when they needed him the most. But at least in this era, he could start fresh, he could start anew. However, so far, it was off to a rough start. The zombies that attacked the village were only the first wave, as Tharos suspected. It was a dual-pronged attack, with one wave coming from the north gate of the village and the other from the southern gate. This necromancer wasn’t a fool; they had at least a basic grasp of tactics. While the three of them, along with some of the men of the village who had joined them in order to help protect their homes and families armed with farm tools and whatever makeshift weapons they could get their hands on, Could easily repel back this group of zombies.
With their help, they were able to easily handle the zombies; however, they were not prepared for the next wave that came in from the southern gate. The skeletal warriors, clad in rusting brown or greying armour and shields with faded heraldry whose meanings have been lost to time, were armed with blunt blades and spiked bludgeons. Some of them were riding on rotting or almost skeletal horses armed with lances. They were also unprepared for the flesh golems, twisted amalgamations of dead necrotic flesh shaped to serve their creators’ wishes. These flesh golems were sinewy and lean, designed for agility and speed, with long limbs and sharp, bone-like talons for claws capable of tearing through flesh like a hot knife through butter. Additionally, there were the ghouls, humans twisted and turned by dark magic, and repeated acts of cannibalism and inbreeding. They were armed with whatever weapons they could carry, from simple axes to clubs with jagged spikes protruding from them. There were at least a few hundred of these creatures in total, and while Rayner, Cenric, and he were able to hold their own, the same couldn’t be said for the villagers. Most of the villagers who were able to stand their ground and not run in sheer terror as the avatars of death bore down on them were quickly cut or beaten down to the cold, muddy ground that threatened to swallow them whole. The unfeeling, long-since-cold, dead automatons made of nothing more than bone and flesh, hollow shells of what once contained the spark of life within themselves, fuelled only by dark magic and the will of another, marched forever forward regardless of who or what stood in their way. Heads were split open or severed from the neck, limbs butchered to the tendon or bone, bodies battered and broken, and those unlucky enough to not die immediately found themselves drowning to death in the mud, as the pouring rain, and the crush of bodies fell upon them.
to hours. Tharos found himself getting wounded and separated not only from his companions but also from the body of villagers who were now throwing themselves into the undead horde with a desperate Ferocity and fervour that was unmatched. The human animal was on full display, that primal instinct that lay dormant beneath the surface, emerging only in the most desperate of times when the comfort of civilisation was unavailable. Tharos watched this display as his wounds healed as quickly as they were made, with a small amount of awe.
“Perhaps Rayner’s and my assessment of their combat prowess was grossly underestimated.” There was a certain strength that people possessed, a strength that only emerged when they were protecting the thing they loved the most, whether it was their home, their family, or perhaps something abstract like their ideals or personal beliefs. It was something that Tharos had almost forgotten. Although their skill in combat left a lot to be desired, and to Tharos, they were nothing more than children wielding sticks when compared to his skill with the blade. But he found their display admirable, knowing many people who would run away and hide rather than stand their ground.
After dispatching more undead creatures with a simple swing of his blade and as much effort as a single breath, Tharos turned his head and saw Cenric and Rayner surrounded by undead, about two or three rows thick. They were separated just like he was. Rayner was slaying his undead foes quickly with wide and open sweeps of his axe that cleaved through them effortlessly, displaying the same level of savage and unrelenting brutality that had become his trademark. Few could manage, let alone a bunch of undead creatures who only acted on base instincts or the will of their masters. For these undead creatures; these mere automatons of dead flesh were nothing more than sheep before a starving wolf. A starving wolf that would rip and tear into their flesh with ease, their blood and guts spilled out and flowed like a rushing and raging river upon the ground. Behind him, covering his back, was Cenric, who was busy engaging in a desperate struggle of arms with one of the skeletal warriors as it took several swings at Cenric with a rusting blade. Strikes that he managed to parry with rapid succession with his axe. As Tharos watched on, he noticed one of the ghouls making a beeline towards Cenric while he focused on the skeletal warrior in front of him. Quickly rushing forward, cutting down more undead as he did so, managing to carve himself a path to Cenric and Rayner.
Tharos shouted, “Cenric, on your left!” He swung his sword, managing to bisect a ghoul in half with a single strike just as it was about to strike Cenric with a club from the side. Cenric had his back turned.
“Thanks,” Cenric replied as he swiftly moved away and smashed the warrior’s head open with his axe, causing magical energy to leak out of it like a black mist.
Tharos couldn’t help but be happy at this display. “It seems the training is starting to pay off,” he thought to himself.
“Duck!” cried Rayner as they both quickly ducked. Swinging above their heads was a massive great axe with a wide arc, crashing and cleaving into a large group of flesh golems that were about to leap upon them. The three of them stood back to back, engulfed in a maelstrom of battle, with axes and swords swinging. It was a blur of sounds and smells. The air was filled with a mixture of rotting flesh, muddy rain, the scent of fear, adrenaline, and the exhilaration of being alive, knowing that their existence teetered on the edge of a knife as they held back the jaws of death. The clang of metal on metal, roaring, shouting, and screaming from the villagers. The squelching of mud underfoot was getting drowned out by the heavy rain.
Tharos heard shouting and quickly turned to see the village elder, Nico, standing a fair distance away from the action but close enough for people to hear him. Nico was in his nightwear, wearing a hastily put-together thick tunic to block out the rain. Despite his age and temperament, Nico spoke with a loud and booming voice that surprised Tharos.
“Quick, everyone, head to the village hall,” he shouted before heading in that direction himself.
“Not a bad idea,” Tharos thought to himself. It would be easier to fight off these undead creatures from a more defensive position, like a large building. Quickly focusing his mind, Tharos sent his battle plan to Cenric and Rayner. Both of them nodded in agreement. While he and Cenric would push forward heading toward the village hall, Rayner would cover their backs.
As they pushed forward through the mud and past the corpses, old or freshly made, after several minutes of swinging their axes and swords, the three of them managed to break through the horde of undead. As they ran, he noticed Cenric helping any villager he could to their feet as they made their way to the village hall, with the undead horde slowly following behind them. When they reached the village hall, several villagers gestured for them to come inside. As they did so, the hall door was slammed shut, and the people began to barricade it with whatever they could find. Seizing this brief moment of opportunity to assess the breach, he glanced around the hall and saw a crowd of people, many of them in their nightwear, most of them splattered with blood, and all with wide eyes and shocked expressions. Even outside, he sensed the fear of the villagers who were currently barricaded in their homes. He could feel the life force of people flickering in and out, some already gone like the wind, and he could feel the undead slowly closing in on them.
After catching his breath, Tharos looked at his companions. Both of them were covered from head to toe in mud and blood. Cenric had a few more scratches and cuts, but nothing too serious. Tharos then heard loud crashing and banging sounds at the door of the hall, as the undead threatened to break it down. The door shattered and shook. He saw Nico trying to calm down the group of frightened people and giving orders to all the men who were able. Tharos did the same for his companions, but they didn’t need much convincing. Rayner was smiling widely, clearly enjoying every moment of it. Cenric, on the other hand, though Tharos could sense fear in him and even see it reflected in his gentle green eyes, it was a fear that he was trying to hide behind what Tharos would call his pensive face. It was the type of face that carried with it a sort of dignity, a dignity that was silent and didn’t draw attention to itself. It was also the type of face that, when viewed in a certain light and angle, would make women swoon.
As they all got ready, the crashing and banging sounds from beyond the halls grew louder and louder, resembling rolling waves and crashing thunder. The undead were pounding on the doors, causing them to bend and crack. The tension in the air was as cold as ice. Tharos could swear that he could hear heart palpitations and see beads of sweat dripping down people’s faces. He gripped his sword tightly as what was about to be the final push for the undead to break in, but suddenly, silence. Dead silence. Tharos paused to listen and could hear shuffling noises from beyond the door, shuffling noises that were getting farther and farther away. As he focused his mind, he could sense the undead getting farther and farther away from the village. Did they win? Was this a feigned retreat, or perhaps they put up such a fight that the necromancer decided it was better to try again later when they had gathered more undead creatures?
As he and everyone in the hall started to take stock of the situation, Tharos heard a voice call out. “Is it over?” It was Nico.
“I am not sure,” Tharos stated as he started moving towards the door, gesturing to Rayner to move the barricades out of the way.
As the hallway doors slowly creaked open and people watched with bated breath, Tharos was greeted with a terrible sight: bodies. Lots of dead bodies. Some of them undead, and others were villagers. As he looked on at this sight, he took a deep sigh. It seemed once again he had his work cut out for him.
