The unmistakable stench of corrupt death, the scouts reported they were coming. Reports of at least five score of them. Only the slow variety, no initiative of their own beyond killing. Must be a decent necromancer to control this many. No reports of faster ghouls, or even skeletons. He must not have thought the town would have any protection, any armed force would have no trouble dealing with just the mindless shamblers. They shouldn't arrive for at least another hour or so. Why do we have to be downwind?
Something is off though. I already have my sword ready while everyone is busy putting their armor on and sharpening their weapons. There's no enemy nearby, though. I can't seem to put it away.
They arrive, and we begin the defense. With no funnel to thin their numbers upon assault, we decided a simple line of fighters would do the trick. Spearmen and those with other polearms kill them before they can get close enough to attack. Shieldmen finish off those that get through the blades. Cavalry circle around and take out any that go for our the flanks. I'm in reserve, feeling kind of left out. They wont need me for this one.
Looking around, I see that there's a woodsman chopping logs and watching us face the predicted horde, confident none will pass us.
My blade drips with blood. I stand over the corpse of the woodsman. A man yells, drawing my attention, a farmer bailing hay with a pitchfork.
I stand over a pile of reddened hay. The farmer's body audibly hits the ground. Facing further into the village, I see two children fencing with sticks.
No comments:
Post a Comment