Interlude 04: Attack on Darb

Francis yelled out as he jabbed his pitchfork, catching the undead monstrosity in the face. His attack did nothing to the creature, as it continued to snarl and try to claw its way past the barricade. Using all of his might, Francis shoved back against the monster, causing the prongs of his pitchfork to penetrate further into the skull. With the monster finally dead, (well, dead-er) Francis pushed the corpse off his makeshift weapon and prepared to fight another of the seemingly endless waves of undead.

He and the surviving members of Darb had managed to hold up in the village hall. They fortified the structure as best they could, stacking shelves and furniture over all the entrances, thus barricading themselves from the outside. Sadly the fortifications didn’t seem to discourage the undead at all. The rotting monstrosities continued to pound on their doors and claw at their windows.

Francis had no idea how this could have happened. The day had started out so normal. He had been eating breakfast when all of a sudden he heard screaming outside. Rushing out, he saw his neighbor, Norman Walls, fighting with what he thought at first was a man. As Francis got closer to them though, he saw that the man wasn’t a man at all, but a walking corpse.

He, like every child in the village, had been told stories of the undead. Of how they were the constructs of evil mages and how they haunted the deepest, darkest dungeons of the world. But never in his wildest imagination did Francis believe that he would actually see one, and in Darb no less!

Norman didn’t fare well in his battle against the vicious creature. He had taken several bites to the arms and hands and was bleeding profusely. By the time Francis had reached him, the monster had already sunk its teeth into his neck. Francis tried to pull the creature off, but it held firm, tearing a chunk out of Norman’s neck and swallowing it. Norman gurgled, blood profusely spurting out of his neck. He toppled onto the ground with the monster still clinging to him.

Francis screamed. He remembered rushing to his barn where he took up his pitchfork, then returned to Norman’s body, as well as the monster that was slowly eating it. With anger and fear fueling his heart, Francis thrust the pitchfork forwards like a spear. Its prongs pierced the undead in the back causing little to no damage. He managed to catch the creature’s attention though, as it turned its head away from Norman’s corpse and stared at him with grim, milky white eyes.

As the monster rose to its feet, Francis stabbed it in the chest. It didn’t seem to care. Over and over, Francis stabbed away at the walking corpse, all to no effect. It was then that he remembered something from the stories. His memory told him that this type of undead had a name: zombie. Zombies were reanimated corpses that do whatever the caster who raised them commanded. There were only two ways to kill a zombie; either destroy the brain or set it on fire.

Francis didn’t have a torch with him, so he decided to use method one. With all of his might, he thrust his pitchfork directly at the zombie’s head. The fork scraped against the rotten skin and bounced off the hard skull. He tried again, and this time the prongs found purchase, embedding themselves in its head. But they were not in deep enough to reach the brain as the monster was still moving. Francis pulled out his pitchfork then stabbed it for the third time. With a wet “squilsh” the fork pierced into the brain. The zombie dropped to the ground right at Francis’ feet.

It took him a moment to catch his breath, a few seconds to calm his racing heart. Once he had regained his composure, Francis noted the death and destruction all around him. There was more than one zombie and they were attacking the entire village!

He and a few other able-bodied men helped fight off the waves of undead, at least long enough to get the few survivors into the village hall. It was the largest building in the settlement, and one of the most easily defended. The villagers barricaded themselves inside and there they stayed until this moment.

Another undead had climbed the barricade and was attempting to get in. Francis jammed the end of his pitchfork into its neck, twisting it around and trying to do as much damage as he could. Black, foul-smelling blood dribbled from the wound, spattering the barricade in filth.

While Francis held the monster down, another villager came up and smashed its head with a table leg. The mightly blow crushed the skull, pulping the brain inside. The zombie slid off Francis’s pitchfork and fell to the ground, dead.

“We can’t hold out for much longer,” the villager said.

Francis nodded in agreement. Sooner or later, those monsters would tear down their barricades and get in. He was lost as to what to do.

Then, he heard it.

It was a mighty roar, like that from a beast of legend. It was a crack of thunder, one that precluded the coming of a great and terrible storm. It was a clang of a gong, the signal that calls forth Berushta, the God of War.

“What was that?” asked the villager.

The answer came from outside when a large, black shape fell upon a group of undead and began to hack at them with a sword. At first, Francis thought that one of the Church’s clerics, known for their long black coats and wide-brim hats, had arrived to save them. But then he saw the scales, the tail, and the teeth. This was no cleric of Rekorim. This was a demon from the depths come to wreak havoc on the world!

Over and over the demon would slice apart several undead. Then he would fiddle with what looked like a large wood and metal wand. After his fiddling, the demon would aim the wand at a zombie and then boom. An explosion of fire and smoke would erupt from the wand, and the zombie would lay dead, a neat hole in its head.

“It’s the lizardman!” shouted Barkley, the innkeeper. “Oh, I knew he would help us! I just knew it!” His wife told him to hush up.

Lizardman? Is that what that thing outside is? Francis had heard of lizardmen before, sure. He had been told that they were vicious savages who lived in the interior of the Wetlands. They were a primitive, barbaric people who were known for eating their enemies alive.

So what was this one doing so far away from his swamp? How is he able to use such strange magic? Why is he dressed like a church cleric? And why is he helping us?

All these questions rolled around in Francis’s head as he watched the lizardman carve up the army of undead outside. As all the villagers watched, as they saw the lizardman kill one after another, the army of zombies did not seem like such an insurmountable obstacle anymore. They were capable of being beaten!

“Let’s go help him!” said Rygil the tanner.

All of the men inside agreed.

By the time the villagers removed the barricade blocking the front doors, most of the fighting was over. There were a few zombie stragglers still walking about, and they were quickly dispatched by the villagers with gusto.

Standing in the middle of the village square, surrounded by the bodies of the undead he had slain, stood their savior. Francis and some other village men approached the giant lizard, gawking with open mouths at the devastation he alone had wrought. Most of the bodies had been hacked into chunks and some still moved, though they were in too many pieces to do any actual harm. There was also a fair share of corpses with large holes in the middle of their foreheads, the result of the lizardman’s strange weapon.

As they came nearer, they saw that the lizardman was panting heavily, obviously exhausted from his brutal battle. Besides this, he showed no other signs of injury. His long black coat was hardly scratched, and there were no cuts or bruises on his skin. Only the sticky black blood of the undead dripping from his sword gave away that he had been in combat.

Francis reached the lizardman first. Just as he was about to give his thanks for saving their lives, the lizardman spoke. Francis shut his mouth to hear their savior speak.

“What took you guys sho long?”