The camp was in utter turmoil. The darkness was illuminated in spots by hastily lit torches that threw an ominous red glow on the dwarves fighting for their very lives. Diesalot may have been the first to fall to the curse of the undead, but the plague had already spread with rapidity. Before Labs was able to raise the alarm, over a dozen slumbering dwarves had been infected, and their irrational hunger was hurling them against a hastily erected defensive line. The casualties were not however all the work of the dead. An unfortunately lethargic dwarf had arisen amongst the shouting with a deep moan, wondering what on earth all the shouting was about, only to find himself neatly decapitated several moments later by an over-zealous axe-dwarf.
Even Kubluk had found himself forced to hastily draw his blade, as from the shadows a snarling dwarf lunged, its arms outstretched in an unnatural embrace. His skills with the weapon were modest, but sheer adrenaline thrust his blade deep into his assailant’s heart.
“So, how do you feel about that?!” Kubluk shouted in triumph, before sliding his sword out from the wound. The zombie looked down momentarily as a pile of entrails dropped bodily from the gaping hole, before growling once again. Kubluk swore and took a step backwards, once again raising his sword and taking another stab. From over to his right came the familiar voice of Othtar.
“The head you fool, stab him in the head!”
Kubluk cursed his own stupidity, and swung his sword around in an arc that would have impressed Pythagoras himself. Its majestic sweep was however brought to an unfortunate end as the blade ended up wedged in the dead dwarf’s gorget. Kubluk released his grip from the sword and waved his hand furiously in agony, swearing numerous curses at various dwarven deities as he danced in a circle. The undead dwarf looked on with mild curiosity at Kubluk’s dancing antics, uncertain as to whether to continue its assault. Moments later the decision was made for him as a whirling blade from the darkness split his head almost in two.
“Anyone see where my sword went?” came the distant cry of Teach.
As visceral and high budget the combat was, a small group of newly undead dwarves proved no match for the military dwarves that guarded the caravan. Through perseverance, and the usual optimistic dwarven attitude to combat, the defenders finally slaughtered the last of the infected. The survivors gave a ragged cheer, and began to clear the bodies. Within less than a minute, an argument had broken out over who killed who.
Othtar stepped out from the darkness, wiping his blade clean of blood. He nodded to Kubluk, who was still sucking his hand and muttering to himself.
“You’ve the makings of a beserker there my friend,” Othtar chuckled. “If you’re going to scream and swear during combat, you could at least keep fighting whilst you’re doing it.”
Kubluk looked down, where the decimated remains of his recent attacked lay in the dirt.
“Did I do that?” he asked, his memory of the last few minutes a little hazy.
“Teach got in the killing blow, not that he noticed, but you made a pretty good mess of it beforehand.” Othtar remarked. “You’re not a professional soldier yet, but you’ve certainly got something going for you.”
Kubluk finally took a moment to look around. The camp had been utterly wrecked by the combat. Possessions lay strewn across the clearing, a wagon had been toppled onto a deadite, whose legs twitched from underneath. Kubluk sighed.
“How many did we lose?”
“Casualties haven’t been confirmed yet, I’m guessing twenty.” Othtar replied.
“Where did they come from?” Kubluk asked finally. “I thought we had sentries on the perimeter all night.”
“That human we brought with us. He must have hidden a wound from us, turned in his sleep. Diesalot must have gotten too close, and ended up the carrier.” He paused, and his brow furrowed. Moments later, without a word, the commander turned and began to methodically pick through the debris. Kubluk looked on as Othtar moved quickly around the camp, checking every body he passed.
“What are you looking for?” Kubluk asked.
Othtar looked up, and stared fixedly into Kubluk’s eyes. “The human. His body is not here.”
“He must have wandered off. But that’s good, surely?”
“Depends on where he’s going. He knows where we are.”
Kubluk swore under his breath.
“Time to leave?” he asked.
“Time to run.” Othtar answered. He barked into the night. “Leave the bodies, pack your bags, we’re rolling in five minutes! Grab what you can, leave what you can’t.”
Even as he yelled his orders, from far in the distance an unearthly moan of hundreds of soulless voices rose from the fog. A legion of the dead were approaching.
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Topic: The Captain's Log- Spiritwood (Read 61713 times)