The injured in the old abounded human home, were the most injured from the Harpies attack and the recent raid, their bodies were too weak to move and so where unable to leave, trapped in their cots, now on the path of the walking corpses.
Varga pulled herself to her feet, a sharp pain lancing through her side, as she eyed the undead circling her, their pale eyes fixed on her with mindless hunger. She raised her axe to block her front, the wood of the haft solid in her grip, while she checked her side with her free hand and scowled as it came away covered in warm, sticky blood. She had a bloody gash down the side of her rib.
She spat towards the closest rotting creature, and raised her weapon in challenge, then threw herself back into the fight. She had to get to the injured ward in time.
The walking corpse swung at her with a rusted hatchet. Steel rang against steel as she blocked it, and she retaliated by slamming the staff of her axe into the creature's side. A wet crunch echoed, but it didn't back away. Instead, it leaned in, its mouth becoming a foul, gaping hole that snapped at her throat with blackened teeth.
Varga growled. She launched a series of wild, powerful slashes at the undead, overwhelming it with her ferocity. Her assault forced the monstrosity back, finally giving her room to breathe.
She used the momentum to maneuver aside, her boots sliding across the ground just as another creature emerged from behind, aiming to gut her with its own rusted blade. But her body was already moving, a burst of adrenaline-fueled speed guiding her. She swung her axe in a wide, backward arc, catching the new attacker squarely in the side.
Yet, even with her axe buried in its ribs, the creature began to rise, undeterred. It got back up, and together with its companion, they moved to flank her.
"Attack!"
The loud cry was followed by the thunder of fur boots. A group of Krags surged from the side, their massive, hammer-wielding forms a welcome sight. They rushed the undead with a disciplined fury, instantly splitting into two groups. One contingent moved to form a living wall of flesh and steel before the cabin, protecting the injured. The other drove straight toward Varga, their unified war cries shaking the very air.
The hammer-wielding Krags slammed into the creatures of rot. The heavy, metal heads of their weapons swung in brutal arcs, crushing bone and pulverizing rotting flesh with a series of sickening, satisfying crunches. The tide of battle turned in an instant.
Varga could feel their rage radiating off them like heat, and she couldn't blame them. This was more than just an attack on their camp; it was a desecration, a mockery of the dead that struck at the very heart of their beliefs, a profound sacrilege.
"We Krags must purify them!" an old veteran bellowed, his voice cutting through the din of combat. "Send them off to the other side with honor!"
His words fueled their frenzy. They drove the shambling horrors back with relentless, crushing blows, which instantly carved a path through the fray. As they secured the area, the other group began to rush towards Varga , while the rest formed a protective barrier around their wounded.
More undead made it through the entrance, slamming into the incoming Krag forces with mindless ferocity. The first, a former human with a gaping chest wound, knocked a hammer aside with shocking strength and launched itself into a gravity-defying lunge.
But the bold Krag warrior was ready, his stance wide and solid. His hammer met the creature mid-air, smacking into its skull with a sound like a splitting dono fruit before it could land. He swung the weapon in a continuous motion to his left, using its momentum to slam another Krag undead, into the snow, pinning it down. The thing flailed and spat a thick, black substance, then began to rise again, its skull visibly dented.
As the creature shambled forward, a young Krag warrior slammed his hammer down in a crushing arc, only to have his blow parried by the undead's own axe, a block that rang with metallic finality. Before the young warrior could recover, the creature grabbed him by his fur vest and, with unnatural strength, yanked him closer. Its blackened teeth ripped into his throat with a terrible, tearing sound.
"Ahhhh!"
"Brother!" another Krag roared, his face a mask of horror and rage as he tried to rush to his aid. But another Krag undead, that was slashed across the chest and missing an arm, was already pulling itself from the stained snow, its one good hand clawing at his leg to drag him down.
The seemingly unstoppable undead was finally finished off as Jorik, his face a mask of grim determination, brought one of his blades down in a savage swing that cleaved deep into its neck, severing the spine. The creature shuddered violently and vomited a gout of black blood that reeked of putrid meat, a foul odor that made eyes water. Then, at last, it went limp, truly dead.
Nearby, Arieus was a whirlwind of controlled violence, keeping a knot of other undead at bay. He had broken their encirclement with a series of feints and powerful blows, but was forced to constantly move and attack to prevent them from reforming it. Goruk flanked them, his great two-headed axe decapitating one while Arieus held their attention.
The war chief had also disable the arm of one of the undead with a heavy, cleaving strike that shattered the elbow, and it now fell uselessly to the snow, dangling by a thread of tendon. Another limped at him, its leg broken, trying to tear at his side with its nails but he sidestepped and smashed it's head with his one handed axe, a brutal, efficient motion, causeing black blood to oozed from it's crunched skull.
Varga looked up from dispatching her own foe and saw that Arieus had his fight under control. She focused wholly on her own battle. Fully stepping back after severing a rotting corpse's legs at the knee, she moved to get a clearer view of the overall fray.
She then stashed her axe across her back, the leather strap crossing her chest, and unsheathed her blade, the steel singing as it left the scabbard. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold, blood-tainted air.
Kuros
Her emerald eyes brighted with an inner light as everything slowed down, the world narrowing to a tunnel of focus, every movement stretching into a snail's pace, every detail becoming crystal clear. An undead was tangled with a Krag, their limbs locked in a desperate struggle; she could see the Krag's strength fading as he grappled.
Varga breathed out, a plume of steam in the frozen air, and moved, becoming a blur of motion. The undead Sensing her immediately, disengaged to snap its head toward her, jaws gaping. She slipped under a clumsy swing by a hair's breadth in a fluid duck, and drove her blade in a precise thrust through its temple. It fell and began to flop on the ground like a huge, rotting fish gasping for air, its limbs twitching erratically.
She whirled, her cloak flaring around her, and attacked another creature from its vulnerable side before it could react, its attention fixed on another warrior. Her sword bit into its undefended neck, a clean strike, and black blood sprayed in an arc as it collapsed.
Another, a large brute missing its lower jaw, lunged at her to catch her off balance. But Tarlak shoulder-checked it heavily to the side, throwing it off course. Varga ran up, her feet finding sure purchase on the bloody ground, jumped, and whipped her blade through the air in a silver flash, sinking it deep into another undead's eye socket. It screamed, a horrifying, rasping sound, and shuddered for a few seconds before stepping forward blindly to resume its attack.
It was all the time Tarlak needed. His own blade was already in motion, as he unleashed a horizontal slash that carried the weight of his entire body. The rotting creature started twitching, its hands flying to its throat, but remained upright as its bodiless head gazed malevolently at him, the pale light in its eyes fading. Blood gushed from the torn throat as the creature collapsed into a heap of rags and rotting flesh.
Now, none of the creatures were left standing. Only the dead and the wounded remained.
Finally.
A ragged cheer went up from the surviving Krags, a roar of triumph and released tension as they raised their weapons to the air. Jorik let out a sharp, relieved laugh, a burst of nervous energy leaving him. "We didn't even need to use the rest of the reinforcements!" he said, grinning widely at Tarlak as he wiped a smear of black blood from his cheek.
But his smile faltered as he noticed Harken's expression. The older warrior's face was stone-serious, his eyes fixed on the dark tree line beyond the camp's entrance. "Why are you so serious? We won?" Jorik asked, his voice losing its cheer.
Before Harken could respond, a loud, urgent shout echoed across the camp, slicing through the celebration.
POOOOOWUUUL! POOOOOWUUUL!
The horn blast was doubled, the signal for extreme, imminent danger.
"What in the kraggoths…?" a Krag shouted, turning toward the sound. His face fell. Every head snapped toward the camp entrance, the brief victory celebration dying in their throats.
Varga's eyes followed, her senses screaming. Were just beyond the entrance a shuffling sound began, faint at first but growing steadily closer, It was soon joined by another sound, one that made even the battle-hardened Krags shiver, a horrifying collection of screams, wails, and screeches that spoke of endless torment.
The camp fell into a state of utter, dread-filled silence, broken only by the deafening approach of the new threat. The battle was not over.
All surviving Krags were now gazing upon the entrance, their weapons lowering slightly in stunned horror. For what they saw made their blood run cold.
The first skeletons stepped from the forest, their place bones was apparent under the twin moons. They moved with a jerky, unnatural gait. Then came more. And more. An endless stream of them, a sea of bone.
"More and even more," one warrior whispered, his voice thick with dread.
"Did the Dark Path open up to swallow us?" another muttered in uneasy agreement.
The group sounded uncertain, their confidence low as they gazed at the horde of skeletons emerging from the forest, an endless stream of them. Each and every one was armed with various weapons - notched axes, rusted swords, broken spears - and they seemed to be endless, a sea of bone.
"Forty, no, even more," Jorik muttered, his eyes scanning the dark forest edges, seeing movement everywhere. "They're surrounding the camp."
The sentinel that was charged to keep the camp gate began to retreat inward, while forming formation under the command of their leaders. Some of those who had been kept in reserve were called out to reinforce the forces on the front lines, their faces grim.
Vagra rushed to the eastern side, her eyes still fixed on the formation of skeletons that stood at the forest's edge. She heard the group's hushed conversation.
"Many of our warriors will be dying today," Goruk said grimly, as she reached him all this while Arieus gaze was transfixed on the undead army, his expression unreadable. Vagra stepped close,her shoulder nearly brushing his, as she came to his side. "This wasn't what we expected," she said, her voice weary.
"Yes. The horde is too large to just be wandering undead that found our camp," Arieus replied, his eyes scanning the enemy lines. "Something's driving them... something more than just mindless hunger."
Varga found the implication was unsettling.
Together, they watched as the skeletons stood motionless, their bony bodies stood in contrast to the living, breathing Krags. The air grew heavy with tension, thick enough to taste. The silence between the two armies frayed every nerve.
Varga's grip on her axe tightened. "We need to get ready," she said while pushing down her own unease."This is going to be bloody fight."
Arieus nodded, his eyes never leaving the enemy. "We'll need a more heavy-handed approach to deal with this... strange turn of events."
But the gathered Krags continued to look upon the formation of skeletons, they noticed something strange and unnerving. The undead army just stood there, doing nothing. The skeletons remained still, their empty sockets seeming to bore into the Krags' very souls as if trying to sap their will.
"What are they waiting for?" a Krag wondered aloud, frustration etched on his face.
As if giving a answer to the Krags words, a faint, chilling cry, seemed to be carried on the wind. "Help me... Please...help me..." The words seemed to come from the very ranks of the undead skeletons, and the krags looked at each other in confusion.
Then, transparent, floating figures began to emerge from the skeletal ranks. They bore the faintest resemblance to humans and Krags, but they flickered, fading in and out of existence as if they might vanish at any moment.
"What in Kraggoth's name?!" Jorik who was in the front line shouted, taking a step back.
"Damned souls," Harken yelled in reply, his voice carrying across the camp. "That's what they are." He finished his face grim.
Jorik spoke up, his young voice laced with concern. "But what does that do for us now?
Haken, didnt look at the young Krag, his eyes were fixed on the spectral horror, but he replied. "It means we have a way bigger fight than we thought, boy."
The Krags continued to stare at the forces before them, their faces now grim as the damned souls wailed and screamed, their voices like nothing most of the Krags had ever heard before.
"It seems... we may have more trouble?" Arieus muttered, so only Varga and Goruk could hear.
And then, as if to prove his point and the gravity of the situation, a figure emerged from the ranks of the skeletons, parting them without a touch. A hooded figure in dark cloak, the fabric seeming to drink the light, they stood still, the figure true features hidden by the Cloak, an aura of absolute menace radiating from it.
It stood perfectly still for a long moment, then suddenly it raised an hand and pointed a single, finger directly at the heart of the camp. For a heartbeat, there was complete silence on both sides.
Then the figure dropped its hand and all broke loose as the sea of bone and souls charged forward.