"Duck !"
"Too late. Ewww."
Sergeant Palomel's shouted warning had come too late. His squad-mate was a smear across the desert sand, shredded as the undead gryphon landed on top of him with a horrible crunch.
Image by Vlad Min from Pixabay
The battle was not going well. Sir Walter's Company were in the thick of it, even though they had started off held in reserve, intended to be used as part of a formation held back to strike a decisive blow. Instead, they had been rushed forward to plug a gap in the line.
The front line of the allied army was fighting valiantly, but the plain in front of them was black with the enemy horde. Battalions of zombies and skeletons pressed forward in dense ranks. These were not the mindless, disorganised creatures found by adventurers in the depths of dungeons. Instead, their demonic officers instilled discipline making them obedient automata. Monstrous flying undead creatures commanded the skies, bringing death with little warning. The enemy flanks were composed of swarms of mummy-driven chariots swirling back and forth sniping with deadly accurate archery.
Sir Walter's men may have been mercenaries, but they knew that if the line broke, no-one was going to get out of this mess alive. The city of Thenitos to their left boiled with corpses rushing out to join the enemy ranks, and the army looked to be outnumbered a hundred to one.
"Hold steady, lads !" came the cry from Sir Walter, his white horse a clear rallying point for the Company. "Protect the King's flank ! Drive forward !"
To the immediate right of the Company, King Gortig had flung himself into the battle at the head of his red and black liveried bodyguards. It was both a sign of how desperate the situation was, and a huge morale boost for everyone to see that the King was willing to lead from the front and risk his life as much as any ordinary soldier.
The King looked every inch the veteran warrior he was. His armour wasn't some over-decorated set of courtly frippery; it was heavy, functional and battered. The only concession he made was the plain gold circlet around the crown of his bascinet. He rode a huge black destrier named Stormcloud, likewise clad in heavy steel armour. In the King's hand was the Royal Sword of Jakta, the magical bastard sword Vorlinga. He was using it to great effect, cutting through the undead horde almost effortlessly, opening up a channel for his guard lancers to exploit.
Image by 0fjd125gk87 from Pixabay
As he pushed his spear through the undead gryphon's eye, Palomel knew that all he was doing was causing the creature a bit of inconvenience. No living brain was in that dense skull, and he was struggling to keep his footing as the horror thrashed around. But the length of the spear, and the resistance of it's cross-guard, prevented the thing's beak from snapping his head off.
Glancing around, he could see the rest of his squad fighting to keep formation as another wave of skeletal foes crashed into their ranks. There were less men standing than he would have liked, but he didn't have time to count noses, the gryphon was making determined efforts to break free or kill him. A massive claw bounced off his helmet, making his eyes water and his head ring.
That was when Rickard showed up. The wily half-elf appeared from somewhere on the far side of the creature, jumping onto it's back and hacking at it's neck repeatedly with a short sword in one hand and a hatchet in the other. Palomel forced his spear down with all his weight, pinning the monstrosity down and restricting it's movement as Rickard slashed over and over at the same spot on the nape of it's neck. After what felt like an eternity, but was in reality likely to be no more than twenty seconds, the gryphon's head separated and fell to the ground with a thump. The body kept moving in reflex spasms for a few seconds more, but was no longer a real threat.
"Keep pushing !" came the King's voice, louder than Sir Walter's and clear even above the sound of battle. "Courage men, and don't fear, no matter what you see !"
Palomel looked around, seeing that his men had beaten back the most recent pulse of combat and the survivors had a few seconds to draw breath and take stock of the situation. Some held guard positions while others drew back and hurriedly bandaged wounds, or helped comrades with theirs. A few more seriously wounded limped or crawled off to the rear, to the area designated as a field hospital. It was only marginally safer, but a few archers kept the worst of the flying foes at bay.
That was the point where he sensed a change in the enemy army. If asked, he couldn't have said exactly what it was; it was an instinctive thing born from years of warfare and dozens of battles. The bulk of the enemy were just re-animated dead, but their officers were demons, living creatures subject to emotions and feelings. Subject to fear and doubt. Whether living or dead, an officer's men pick up on those feelings and respond to them. And those feelings were mixed confusion and doubt.
In the distance stood a tower. One of the few surviving locals had told them it was known as the Tower of Ramdas. When the battle had started, it had been on the army's left flank. But they had been pushed back so far that it was now in the rear of the enemy.
The tower looked ancient, even by the standards of this empire where everything was ridiculously old. Palomel had wondered just how old this thing was. It was a sturdy square shape, the upper half a crumbled mass of masonry off to one side, fallen centuries past. The great arched doorway still had it's pair of stone double doors, but they were jammed open and looked like they hadn't been touched in an eon. The whole tower was a sandy-grey colour, blending in with the tone of desert around it.
Pouring out of the tower was an army, rank after rank trotting out in perfect unision, forming a battle line with incredible rapidity. They moved with silent discipline, and Palomel could faintly make out the "thunk !" of volleys of crossbow bolts being fired up at any of the aerial foes who ventured too close.
Company by company, this new army emerged and formed up in silence. There were no battle cries, and any orders being given were too quiet to be heard. Palomel could make out the outlines of these dark grey armoured and uniformed figures; dwarves ! The enemy horde started to react, pulling back for a few paces before splitting into two, surging towards both armies in a rush as the battle resumed.
That was when something else emerged from the tower's great gateway. It had to squeeze through, pushing itself through a gap too small for it's size. As it came through, it unfolded itself, and Palomel felt a surge of pure atavistic fear as a gigantic reptilian head let loose a ferocious roar.
Spreading leathery wings to expose white scales yellowed with age, the dragon launched itself into the air. It was enormous, far bigger than such things were supposed to be. On it's back, barely perceptible, it bore the tiny figure of a rider. With a shock, Palomel suddenly realised who had come to their aid.
These were no ordinary dwarves. They were the Dark Dwarves of Gorgar. Conquered by the Drow some centuries past, the rider on the dragon could only be the dark elf viceroy appointed to rule over them, known as Lady Teren.
No-one knew her dragon's name but it was reputed to be the oldest in the world, and by far the largest. It was also clearly intelligent. The way it focused it's icey breath on the beast-headed demons and then swooped down to shatter their frozen forms with claws or tail made it obvious the thing knew exactly what it was doing. There was more fighting to do, but this monster alone had instantly turned the tide of battle, even without the army of Dark Dwarves it was leading.
It was nearly sunset. The battle was over, the remaining undead wandering away without their living officers. Parties of cavalry roamed the debris-strewn field, mopping up, destroying as many of the enemy as they could to save having to fight them again another day.
Sir Walter looked around at the remnants of his company. They stood exhausted but defiant. Every man was filthy, covered in the gore of friend and foe alike, and most of them had at least one bandaged wound.
"How many this time, Gilbert," he asked his lieutenant.
"We don't have a final count yet, Sir Walter, there may be a few still at the field hospital awaiting the healers, but by my reckoning we've lost at least sixty men. Forty five are fit for service, with another twenty or thirty who should rejoin the ranks once they are healed."
Blinking back a tear, Sir Walter knew he had to show strength to his men. But it was hard. This was the worst he'd ever seen, and more losses than the company had ever had before. Another battle like this and there would be nothing left......
I hope you like this ! What fate awaits Sir Walter ? Will any of his company survive the war against the Undead ?
If you want to read the earlier parts, they are at;
An RPG Mercenary Company
The Siege of Del Mitinri - RPG Fiction, Sir Walter's Story #2