Medieval Dead

Brennolv, the commander of the king's troops, paced in his chamber, clutching his sword in a tight fist as the wind howled through the cracks in the fort's stone walls. A storm raged outside, and lightning flashed, momentarily chasing away the cold darkness. Dread seemed to grip his spirit as he trudged from one end of the room to the other. He was scared, terrified by the report of an impending attack on his fortifications. The news had hit him like a smith's hammer. He had received a dire message from a fort upriver: a throng of undead creatures, risen from the graves by some necromantic sorcery, was heading his way, looking to feast upon those they found alive. All other towns to the east had been overrun. This was the last fort before the capital. The fort must stand.

He'd ordered his men to prepare for battle. He told them to fire the torches and sharpen all blades. Sadly, he knew they were overpowered. Death would come knocking. The fort was ancient and decayed, and the gates were weak. The capital was not much better. He had sent word to the king begging for more men, but he knew they could not arrive in time. He prayed to God for help, for strength, for a miracle, but there was no comfort to be had. His situation was dire. His twenty men stood no chance against the horde.

A thunderous crash sounded from outside, followed by screams. He ran to the window and looked down. Dozens of rotting corpses, many clad in rusted armor, others wearing rags, were illuminated momentarily by a flash of lightning. Some were missing limbs or eyes. They were battering at the gates with axes, clubs, and anything else they could muster. They groaned horribly. The sound of their moans filled him with terror. A few of them had already breached the walls. Some of his soldiers took up arms against them, but they fell one by one to the relentless attacks.

A surge of anxiety mingled with rage warred against each other, the former trying to unnerve the veteran warrior. The latter filled him with hatred, their conflict threatened to overtake his will. He knew he must stay clear-headed if they had any chance of survival. He needed to be decisive and sure of himself, not pacing and fearful. He needed to take action. He grabbed his helm and shield and charged to the door. "Come, boy, we must join the fight. We cannot let these monsters take the fort. We must defend it to the last man or die trying. For God and king, charge!" He shouted to his squire, who had been waiting nervously in the hall, awaiting his lord's command.

He opened the heavy wooden door; it creaked on iron hinges. The commander of the king's troops ran down the stairs, his squire close behind. They reached the courtyard together, where the clash of battle raged. He lifted his broadsword and plunged headlong into the fray. He hacked and slashed at the zombies. He felt no pity or remorse, only rage. He fought with all the zeal of a lunatic. He knew it was hopeless. The undead surrounded him, and his men fell rather quickly. He knew they'd not be down for long. Before him stood a zombie with a shattered sword in its breast. It lunged at him with a ferocious attack. He parried its blow with ease, but another one came from behind and grabbed him, biting him on the neck. A burning pain emanated from his neck and was spreading. His eyesight became blurred before narrowing to tunnel vision, then nothing. The commander fell to the ground, his eyes wide open, his mouth open in a silent scream. He was dead.

But not for long.

He was one of them now. He had been slain in battle and raised by the necromancer to join his vendetta against the living. He had expected to find peace, or, perhaps judgment, in the afterlife. Mayhap he may enter heaven. But he had found neither. No judgment, no heaven, and certainly no peace. He had found, instead, an icy cold hand gripping his spirit and dragging him back to his corpse. There was an excruciating pain in his brain only human flesh could alleviate. He had opened his eyes and saw the world differently. All was dark and twisted. Blood and flesh were now his focus. He somehow knew they would ease his suffering. He despaired for the peace satiation temporarily would bring him. Hunger began to gnaw at him, a thirst, a need to join them. Rising, he followed the necromancer, towards the west, where lay the capital. He remembered nothing of himself. He was no longer an individual, but a member of a ravenous undead army. He knew only one thing: that he suffered.

He was part of the horde, a collective hive mind of suffering. He obeyed the sorcerer, who controlled him. He did not care about anything else. He did not notice the resistance; their numbers would only add to the throng. The fortifications, the traps, the arrows. none of it mattered. He did not feel the pain of the wounds nor the burns. He did not heed the shouts, the pleas, or the curses. He only wanted to feed and ease, if only for a bit, the burning pain he felt in his brain.

He reached the capital. Atop the walls were guards shooting at the horde with bows, crossbows, and mangonels. Bolts from ballista upon the walls exploded with ferocity as they targeted the multitude of death swarming their walls, crashing at the gates. It did little good. The gates were locked and reinforced, and a mob of them hacked away at it. He did not hesitate. He charged, along with a throng of others, towards the wall. Ahead of him, the horde hit the wall and began piling up upon each other. They started then to climb onto each other's backs, much like ants making a bridge over a puddle. Their numbers increased until he reached the wall. He stammered as he climbed upon the backs of the ones ahead of him, climbing ever upward to get to the top of the wall. He reached over the top of the wall and leapt inside where he faced a guard. He didn't recognize the armor, the badge, the shield, though he had worn them once, he had used them once. He attacked and bit the guard's throat. Blood filled his mouth as he fed and felt the satisfaction.

He was a zombie, and he had no remorse.

He left the guard to his fate before jumping down to the ground. He ran as quickly as he could toward the sounds of screams coming from the streets before him. The smell of the living drew him onward, towards the rows of houses, shops, and taverns that lined the capital's streets. He fed on whoever had the misfortune of being within his reach. Men, women, and children all fell to the horde that had fallen upon their once-thriving city. The doors to homes and businesses throughout the capital had been shattered. None were strong enough to bar the throng for long, and the number of the living dwindled quickly.

The guards failed to mount an adequate defense. Even with the added number of those who chose to fight, rather than hide, there just weren't enough to keep the horde at bay. Nothing they could do would turn the tide. The horrors of their nightmares came knocking at their doors, pounding and breaking them down. It was over in no time at all. Their numbers quickly overran the city, leaving no one alive. The aroma of living flesh gave away the citizen's hiding spots. Those who tried to fight the monsters alongside the city's guards fell, only to rise again. Their numbers added to the throng. The mob devoured everyone in sight leaving none behind, and still he suffered. No matter how much he consumed, his brain burned for more.


Under the command of this dark wizard, they all headed West, toward the last towns and the sea. All of them fell. None could resist the onslaught that sprang upon them. The surprise they felt was quickly replaced with terror. Terror, in turn, would turn to hunger until nobody was left alive on this far remote island. No one left to feed upon. Nothing to satiate his burning hunger. The pain was all-encompassing, an increasing burn that would have driven the living insane long before. He knew not how to alleviate that pain. He knew not how to feed his hunger. He knew only one thing; that he suffered.



1271 words.