Chapter 6: Fight, or Die

Kaius positioned himself with the gap in the wall to his front. The first one through the breach was draped in disintegrating mail, holding a hatchet high overhead.

His eyes narrowed. Breathing kept even more through rote practice than true confidence. The undead lurched forwards. Stumbling as its lacking coordination failed to keep it steady on the uneven stones that littered the gap in the wall. Its jaw hung open. Almost like it was wailing, though he heard no sound.

Behind it, Kaius could see its compatriots closing in on his position. Quickly.

Fast steps closed the distance between them. The undead brought its hatchet down in a heavy chop toward Kaius’s head.

Snapping into a hanging parry, Kaius caught the blow.

His blade met the hatchet edge to edge. Binding the weapon even as his arms shuddered under the undead’s infernal power. He knew he would lose a contest of strength. He didn’t even try.

A flick of his wrist moved the hatchet off-centre. His blade was a lever, the momentum of his foe used against them. Twisting to free his sword. A slight lunge and he had run the undead through its throat.

A certain death.

Or so he thought.

The reality of what he was facing hit him with a punch.

Pain exploded through his chest. Hot iron flooded his mouth as he stumbled backwards out of range. Ribs grated with the movement. Cracked.

They were quickly enveloped with an itching fire as he steadied his footing, his Health beginning to slowly drain as it soothed bruised flesh and splintered bone.

“Idiot! Mistakes like that are how you end up dead!” His father’s voice seemed to echo in his mind

The other undead were quickly approaching the gap in the wall. If Kaius wanted any chance of maintaining the favourable choke point he had to put pressure on the one that had hit him. He brought his sword into a low guard. A flexible position to defend from.

He ignored the sharp discomfort in his chest.

The undead came into range, swinginging its hatchet. Kaius backstepped. Allowing the momentum of his foe’s swing to pull it off balance.

He stepped forwards with a lunge, sword poised to lance the undead through its skull. It pivoted its hips. Eyes burning with glee as it returned its hatchet in a spiteful reverse strike.

Kaius’s face blanched. He could abort his strike. Attempt to dodge the incoming blow. However, the only way he could do that would be to throw himself to the side. Leaving him unbalanced and the initiative firmly out of his hands. No time. He had to commit.

He braced his core, twisting slightly to minimise his profile.

The blunt edge of the hatchet slammed into his obliques, just missing his lowest rib. Air whistled past his clenched teeth. Winding him.

His sword punched through the undead’s nose. Enchanted steel sliding through bone with ease.

**Ding! level 11 Wretched Militiaman slain**

Stepping out of the lunge, Kaius forced himself to ignore the radiating ache of his side. It was quickly joined by the crawling dull itch of his regeneration. He forced himself to take a deep breath, his diaphragm spasming.

The rest of the undead had arrived.

He brought his longsword up. Hilt pulled in tight to his armpit, floating point trained on the head of the leading militiaman that advanced on him. This one armed with a derelict straight sword and buckler. Right behind it, a companion encased in a pitted breastplate and wielding a spear.

The final one trailed behind them. Still making its way across the graves.

The one with the straight sword entered first, its reinforced buckler held out front to ward off blows. The one with the spear fell in behind it. Hovering and ready to attack from behind its vanguard.

Kaius grit his teeth.

“I’ve got this” He reassured himself.

He stabbed forwards. The leading undead reacted instantly with a speed that contrasted its withered body. Its buckler knocked his sword away from its head, following through with a running stab towards his chest.

Sense Weakness twinged. Muscle memory and Warforged enhanced skill capitalised on the burst of intuition.

Kaius took a half step back, the dirty point of the militiaman’s straight sword coming within a hair’s breadth of his tunic. He pivoted his hands. Borrowing the force of the bucklers parry to twirl his sword overhead.

He was too far back on his rear foot to cave in the undead’s brain pan, but…

The point of his sword ripped through the undead’s ratty leather armour. Cutting clean through its leading bicep. Treacle-like blood welled up from the wound, spilling slowly free. Reanimating magics or no, the creature was still primarily of flesh and blood. It needed muscles to move.

Its arm fell weakly to its side, sword held in a limp wristed grip.

Immune to shock and pain, it did little to stop the undead. Stepping forwards it twisted with its hips, throwing its whole weight into a wild haymaker

Neither did its spear-wielding companion give him a moment to breathe. Even as Kaius stepped back again to avoid the vanguard’s reckless attack, the rear undead thrust forward. Pressuring him with its spear.

Fear shot through him. He shifted his head to the side to avoid the blow. A fire split his cheek, blood spilling free to wet his neck. The pitted blade had exposed his gums to the tepid air of the underground glade.

He sucked in a breath. Air stung his open cheek, mouth filling with blood. He didn’t have a moment to think. Health would deal with it. He had a fight to finish.

Swallowed blood coated his throat.

The leading undead was still off-kilter from its full body swing. Kaius attempted to stab forward to finish off the foe. Its companion gave no quarter, a flurry of thrusts preventing him from finishing off its ally. Forcing him to focus on parrying.

They danced like this for some time. Kaius narrowly dodging clumsy half-disabled swings from the leading undead as its spear-wielding companion locked down his advance. Every wasted second, another that the final undead with the club drew closer. Each party was in a deadlock. If it joined the battle the tenuous balance would be broken, and not in his favour.

He had to do something, and fast.

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Worse, he was not fuelled by indefatigable magics. His muscles burned, his chest bellowing with great gulping breaths. Each one grating at the two almost healed chest wounds, every aggravation slowing down the healing process.

Still, he was getting his measure of the militiamen. Furious, strong, and relentless they might be, their movements had an almost rote quality to them. Repetitive. Exploitable. He had yet to see any one of the undead do more than cycle between a few clumsy chops and stabs.

With every stab and wild swing, Sense Weakness and his own combat knowledge shed light on more and more vulnerabilities.

The leading undead threw its whole body into a swing once more. Its limp arm and the awkward weight of its sword pulled it off balance on the uneven terrain. Another opening. One he knew would be defended by yet another stab from the rearguard undead.

Kaius’s focus contracted. Blade spinning to parry the spear thrust that he had seen coming. Borrowing force from the collision he pivoted his sword into a downward slash, taking the off-balance undead clean through the neck. Decapitated, its body fell limp.

**Ding! level 14 Wretched Militiaman slain**

Without pause his sword whipped back up, parrying yet another probing strike.

And another.

He advanced now, putting the pressure on the undead spear wielder.

It retreated, attempting to gain sufficient distance to bring its weapon to bear. A stab, then another step. Then a stab. Repeat. If he moved to attack, the spear came up. Warding its face.

He twitched. Jerking his sword forward in a false stab.

Its spear came up. The moment was here.

Kaius slashed low. Blade met desiccated flesh, shearing through its knee. The undead pitched over. He carried his cut through to whirl into an overhead strike.

His blade buried itself in the undead’s brain pan.

**Ding! level 12 Wretched Militiaman slain**

**Ding! Sense Weakness has reached level 17!**

Triumph washed over him, his mouth splitting into a feral grin that twinged the slowly shortening cut through his cheek. His eyes stayed trained on the sole remaining undead, tonguing the rent. Feeling the air as his flesh writhed as it reknit itself closed.