Chapter 49 - A Lich's Curse: Part 3

His gut clenched, heart pounding with adrenaline when he counted no less than a dozen shambling corpses wearing the tattered remains of ancient armor, ancient swords of bronze, and eyes that glowed with an ill green light.

But what truly sent chills down his spine was that though he could make them out with infravision, just as distinctly as the blue-tinted ground at their feet, just by the way the air played over them, they gave off no additional heat at all. They were detectable, but they did not pop to his heat senses, and there could be no doubt that these walking corpses were most definitely dead.

Because he could feel it, he realized, as the screams of townsfolk began to fade as they fled the area in the middle of the road between two of the largest town buildings less than twenty yards from the smashed-open front gate. He could feel it because he could sense them. Sense their presence like a weight. A pressure upon a sense he was just barely cognizant of.

But before he could analyze the strange sensation once more he snapped out of his daze, realizing that, at that moment, it was just him now facing off against a dozen of those horrors.

“Kid, what are you doing? Get the hell out of the road!” Roared the voice of a man clearly hiding in one of the buildings.

And a part of Eric thought it fine advice.

Even as another part of him summoned his glaive bardiche and prepared to meet the handful of men wearing bronze helms and ancient suits of lorica segmentata approached him at an odd, disjointed march, for all that they held their tattered wooden great shields, or scutums, perfectly level, with bronze short swords, or gladii, held low between the slits separating their shield wall, ready to deliver quick disemboweling thrusts.

Or would be, perhaps, had the arms holding them not looked as emaciated and dry as a corpse left in the desert sun for months.

Eric took a nervous breath as he held his bardiche in high guard, doing his best to get a feel for his enemy's speed and reaction before committing.

It was only when the central soldier with the fanciest bronze helmet gave a guttural whisper echoing in the ether, compelling all the soldiers to begin their charge forward that Eric committed to his strike.

Glaive bardiche has successfully struck Phalanx Leader! Phalanx Leader has lost the use of left arm. 6 ribs shattered! Multiple organ (remains) ruptured!

Eric reveled in the feeling of his polearm windmilling forward with a speed and grace he had never known before, superhuman Strength making the blow both devastatingly powerful and nearly effortless, sending the monster crashing to his knees as Eric obliterated every organ in its body with an overhand chop that would crumpled the armor of even a 15th-century knight.

It was only then that Eric felt his first true tingle of dread welling in the base of his spine when the creature’s milky white eyes filled with unholy green light as it snarled, one emaciated arm reaching up to tightly grab the shaft of Eric’s weapon even as if forced itself up on its emaciated legs.

For an endless moment, Eric gazed in wide-eyed disbelief as the monster rose.

Sure, it was a crumpled mess, torso burst, spine bent and twisted, one arm hanging limply along with a massive piece of ancient shoulder, as if Eric had partially flayed a piece of dry-aged steak.

But it was still upright, using its one remaining arm to hold Eric’s weapon in place, even as the remaining soldiers hissed and moved to surround Eric, eager to make short work of the mortal who dared to think the living had a chance against the walking dead.

Like hell I’m waiting around for that! Eric thought as he sprung back, smashing through the pair of revenants that had already circled, effortlessly slipping past one gladius as the other bronze blade stabbed into his kidney… only to be deflected by the smith’s masterwork armor.

Eric couldn't help but flash an anxious smile as he summoned his blood-bound bardiche free of the revenant head that had collapsed after failing to pin Eric, glaring it's unliving hate as Eric reclaimed his weapon with a hard grin.

“Nice try, asshole,” Eric shouted, this time keeping his bardiche spinning about him with fierce, sweeping arcs and moulinets very much like those used by practitioners of the Italian greatsword whose videos he used to watch on Self-Tube, Journeyman mastery and his own prowess allowing him to quickly adapt his weapon to another style of usage. Always moving, always flowing from one angle of attack to another. Because against a dozen heavily armored soldiers, even if their gear was bronze, protecting their heads with curved, rectangular scutum shields but armed with only short swords, powerful sweeping blows were definitely the way to go.

Eric already knew that thrusts would do nothing to creatures whose organs had already completely desiccated, only ancient dust and dried flakes pouring from the wound that had crippled but far from killed their leader.

Sweeping blows where he was always moving, always pivoting to the side of dead soldiers desperate to hem him in, only to fall to the ground when Eric’s axe blade cleaved right through them, was the only way he'd win this fight.

For all that, he forsook high blows and overhand cuts, where raised shields and bronze helmets limited him to a single target, and often as not prevented anything like a clean decapitation. Instead, he aimed low, counting it a victory whenever he dipped forward and pivoted just enough to cleave one or multiple legs free of their hosts anywhere from ankle to knee, the fierce momentum of his weapon and his own twenty Strength allowing him to cleave completely through bronze greaves with each devastating swing.

And when the opportunity came to make perfect use of a feat recently unlocked with his chosen weapon, when a trio of revenants shambled forward, shields held high as short, wickedly sharp swords prepared to disembowel him, he took it with a certain measure of fierce glee, tapping into the memories and might of countless mighty swings unleashed in battlefields without limit across worlds without number, a tiny echo of the limitless potential now infusing his own swing as well.

Bardiche skillcheck successful! You have successfully channeled the might and memory of countless Warrior’s before you!

Cleaving Blow has critically struck three Undead Legionnaires!

You have cleaved through multiple limbs! Three Legionnaires have been incapacitated!

He couldn't quite hold back his savage grin, savoring the sweet rush of power flooding his frame for a single endless heartbeat as he tore through his foes with the Strength and prowess of a dozen veteran warriors, all three now legless revenants spinning end over end as they toppled through the air.

While Eric immediately snapped back to a high hanging guard, his mind still hyper-alert and utterly focused on the battle before him, prudent enough to only dare his deadly feat occasionally, so he never risked exhausting his mind or slipping into a daze, channeling the ancient arts and prowess of countless warriors before him. Not when focus, alertness, and savvy tactics were the most important tools of any engagement, just as it had been for the very warriors he dared to channel.

And slowly, one by one, having no problem at all fighting a retreating battle, Eric wittled his opponents down to a final intact pair, all the others nearly helpless as they collapsed to the ground, needing to drop their shields in order to scrabble forward at a hermit crab pace, rendered from viable threat to nearly harmless with the loss of a single limb. As was true for any living soldier as well, pre guns and crossbows, Eric thought with a cynical smile as he faced the two remaining upright soldiers, pausing his advance the two seconds he needed to summon his non-bound shield, which he definitely wanted to gain familiarity with in the crucible of battle.

Heater raised and at the ready, he closed to meet his final pair of foes that took his lack of weapon as a sign of weakness, and charged him as one.

You have successfully dodged shield bash and sword thrust from Undead Legionnaires!

You have successfully shield-slammed your opponent. Opponent has been staggered.

You have critically struck your opponent!

Eric couldn’t help but flash a fierce hot grin of exultation as he found his body flowing effortlessly away from a too slow thrust, even as he knocked his foe’s gladius off-line with his shield, before lancing out with a saber he summoned in his hand only in that moment, happy to catch the second walking corpse with a thrust right through the neck.

A white-hot saber blade that instantly killed Eric's infravision even as it passed effortlessly through shriveled flesh that shredded like burning paper.

Eric immediately darted back, realizing he was being a fool to think thrusts would do anything against the undead. If the near dozen fallen zombies still crawling toward him despite missing limbs and in many cases, perforated with holes from instinctive stop-thrusts had taught him anything, it was that puncture wounds didn’t do shit against creatures that didn’t need organs, and if appendages weren’t flying, the zombies weren’t stopping.

So he was more than a bit surprised when the one he had struck right in the spine erupted in flame.

Eric’s eyes widened as the creature began to screech with ancient dried vocal cords before it made no sound at all, merely writhing in its own flames as it was slowly, inexorably consumed by the hot white pyre it had become. It wasn’t a quick death. Not once he tore his blade free, as he found with the second zombie he took down after parring high with his shield while slicing open the creature’s shriveled thigh, which instantly burst into flame as if it had been dunked in kerosene.

But damn if it wasn’t final.

Eric flashed a cold smile at the remaining members of the horde still lumbering towards him. They had been a pain in the ass to deal with, Eric forced to constantly pivot and shift to keep from becoming encircled, having to rely on sweeping blows to the legs and quick reflexes more than anything else.

He really hadn’t been looking forward to cleaving off all their limbs before finally lopping off the twisting chattering heads.

Actually that was a lie. He was reveling in the rush of combat and the practice.

But now? Now the crackling air was ripe with the promise of a far easier way to finish this battle.

He couldn’t help grinning at the hissing cluster of scrabbling zombies, fancying he saw something that almost looked like fear in at least a couple pairs of undead eyes. “Shall we, motherfuckers?”

And whether or not they were willing partners, Eric happily took them all for one last spin, effortlessly leaping past stubborn clumsy hands and feet, culminating their final dance with an expertly placed thrust right in the back of each of their spines.

Eric couldn't help but flash an absurdly pleased smile at the handful of wide-eyed villagers who had witnessed the entire battle.

A few actually clapped and cheered.

He ignored the handful that flinched when they got a clear look at his scarred features that fortunately weren’t too visible with cheek guards on his helm that almost made it a barbute, vulnerable only to thrusts to the T slit that allowed him to see, smell, breath, and eat without any problems at all, his peripheral vision not at all impaired by the masterwork helm, while still protecting him from any steel gauntlet that was the preferred historical weapon for pounding in someone’s face in close quarters combat, according to his former mentor, who really had taught him far more than any actor needed to know.

And just enough to survive this long, at least, in a world being reforged in the fires of countless foes.

“Thank god you were here!” said a woman holding her child from the entryway of a recently renovated building, her little girl flashing Eric the smile of a child who still believed in heroes.

Five words and a grin that absolutely made his day.

A victorious high instantly crushed when the next words filled him with dread.

“The gates have been breached, the undead are swarming!” A panicked guard shrieked some distance away, his frantic warning ending in a scream.

Then came a cry that froze his blood.

“Eric, where are you? We need you!”

Alice's voice, filled with a panicked desperation he had never heard before.

"I'm coming!" Eric screamed, pivoting around and racing in the direction of that cry, sword and shield at the ready, heart pounding with a furious resolve to take out anything that dared get in his way.