Tales of the Old World by Marc Gascoigne, Christian Dunn (ed) - (ebook by Undead) Page A

king, but had thought the better of it when he saw the number of
Herrimault cloaks among the villagers. As much as he had considered them little
more than bandits before today, he was savvy enough to know that their skill
with a bow would be useful in the coming fight.
    “You are right to question me, but I say this not as an order, but as a
statement of fact. You have to hold these walls, for if you do not, your
families will die and your homes will become your graves. At least until fell
sorcery brings your spirit back to your dead flesh and you are denied eternal
rest.”
    He could see the horror of such a thought writ large on every face, knowing
that the fear of such a fate would rouse each man to great deeds.
    “Your courage and strength will decide if you live or die tonight, so if you
fight not for the king or your lord, fight for that. No grand gestures or lordly
ambitions will be satisfied by this battle, only survival. I have fought things
like this before and I tell you now they can be defeated. Cut them down
as you would an orc or beast, but be wary of them rising again. Destroy the head
if you can or smash the ribcage. Though these things have no hearts that beat as
ours do, a mortal blow will still destroy them. Fight hard and may the Lady
guide your arms!”
    “Derrevin!” shouted Carlomax, seeing that Leofric had finished.
    “Libre!” cheered the men of the village in response.
    “Nice speech, my lord,” said Havelock, nocking an arrow to his bow, “but I
think his was punchier.”
    “Evidently,” agreed Leofric as the chant of “Libre! Libre! Libre!” echoed
through the darkness.
    Leofric gripped his sword a little tighter as he saw that the time for
speeches and waiting was over as the army of undead began its advance on the
village. Marching in ordered squares a general of the Empire would have been
proud of, the dead warriors tramped in silence towards the walls, the only sound
the clink and scrape of rusted chainmail on bone.
    “Steady!” shouted Carlomax, nocking an arrow and pulling his bowstring tight.
For a moment Leofric wished he had a bow, but then shook his head at such
foolishness… a knight with a bow! He chuckled at the idea and knew he had spent
too much time in Derrevin Libre if its revolutionary ideals were starting to put
such thoughts in his head.
    “Loose!” shouted Carlomax and a flurry of arrows slashed towards the marching
warriors.
    As Leofric had said, the undead could indeed be brought down, and a dozen
skeletons collapsed into jumbled piles of bone as the magic binding their form
together was undone. The remainder paid these losses no heed and came on,
uncaring of the volleys of shafts that punched through skulls or severed spines.
    Though dozens fell with each volley, there were hundreds more and Leofric
knew that within moments the enemy would be at the walls. Dark fear spread like
a bow wave before the undead and Leofric could see many shafts loosed in haste
from shaking hands thud harmlessly into the ground.
    “Bretonnia!” he shouted. “The spirit of Gilles le Breton is in each of you!
Do not give in to the fear! Remember that your loved ones depend on your
courage!”
    Further words were wasted as the undead warriors slammed into the wall and
Leofric felt the logs sway as the implacable will of the Necromancer gave the
undead strength. Ancient sword blades hacked into the timbers and skeletal hands
dug into the gnarled bark as dead warriors hauled themselves towards the
parapet.
    A leering skull encased in a fluted helmet of bronze appeared before Leofric
and he swept his sword through the neck, sending the body tumbling to the earth.
No sooner had it vanished than yet more appeared. The Blade of Midnight smote
them down, but armoured skeletons clambered over the sharpened logs all along
the length of the wall.
    The villagers of Derrevin Libre hacked at them with axes and stabbed them
from the walls with their spears,