What the Shell?, page 17
HP: 28/70
STA: 5/17
Congratulations! You have reached Level 10. +2 Free Points, +1 STR, +1 CON
Allocating everything in Constitution to feel better, he stared triumphantly at the dying devil.
“Bleat bleat,” he said, panting heavily between words, “motherfucker.”
“Are you crazy?” asked Donald, for what seemed like the millionth time. “Our opportunity to escape is right here! We just have to climb down the wall; how hard can it be? Where I come from, people have to climb over walls to get where they want!”
“I said I’m not coming.” Neville furrowed his brows. “I don’t care if it’s dangerous. They saved my life, and I’m going to help them deal with this.”
“Argh.” Donald let out an exasperated sigh as he turned around to regard the others. “You’re all in on this, aren’t you?”
They were currently in the room where Phac and Oreg had first entered the building, where the window and the library were, having left their prison right after the zombies had pulled the two warriors down the stairs. Daryll, the priest, and Ximea, the lithe, quiet half-elf, were busy investigating the library and the desk; Neville and Maylin stood alongside each other, staring down Donald by the window.
“Hmph, you’re just a selfish bastard,” said Maylin, crossing her arms to her chest. “You can get lost if you want, but we’re sticking with them!”
“Come on, don’t you see it?” Donald whispered as he leaned toward the two. “They didn’t come here to rescue us. Hell, they didn’t even know we existed! They only saved us because it was convenient, how do we owe them anything? They even told us to run!”
Neville frowned. Donald seemed to be making some sense, but Maylin snorted and turned her head to the side, her long red hair almost brushing Donald’s face. “Well, I’m staying, and that’s that.”
“Bah, children; children, I say!” Donald threw his hands in the air as he turned to Daryll and Ximea. “What about you two? At least, you seem rational. The swamp and forest will be easier to navigate in a group rather than alone, when these two die at the hands of the undead.”
Before anyone had the time to reply, Maylin snapped at him. “So, THAT’s what this is about; you just need help to escape. You can’t even do that by yourself!”
Donald’s face reddened in anger, and he was about to lash out, only to be interrupted by the middle-aged priest’s soothing voice. “Calm down, everyone; if we shout, the zombies might hear us. Why don’t we all do whatever we want? I will remain here. My God would smite me if I let the necromancer roam free.”
Donald’s eyes lost their luster for a second as he turned to Ximea. “No,” she said without even raising her eyes from the desk, grounding his last hope to pieces. By the side, Maylin stuck her tongue out, mocking him.
“Madmen, you’re all madmen,” Donald lamented. “Even worse than those two mudmen! Fuck it, I’m going alone. See you in hell!”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned around, put his feet in footholds he’d previously discovered, and disappeared below the window.
“Good riddance.” Maylin snorted. “Now, who’s up for finding our equipment?”
“I don’t think we have the time,” Neville quipped. “If I was the necromancer, I would have stashed it all somewhere guarded, just in case we escaped.”
“I would feel much more comfortable with my armo—” began the priest, but before he could finish his words, screams and shouts came from below, followed by the sounds of battle. “Guess not. We must go!”
“I have weapons,” declared Ximea as she headed for the door. Two long vials were in her hands, their edges broken off to make them sharp like daggers. Neville grabbed the chair that stood behind the desk and, with a sharp kick, broke one of its legs off.
“I don’t,” he said, grabbing the chair leg, “but I’ll manage. Let’s go!”
Daryll paused for a moment, then grabbed the rest of the chair before following. “So will I!”
Running down the stairs, the four descended through a dark floor before almost reaching the ground floor. Light flooded from below while the sounds of battle became much more pronounced. “Let me,” said Ximea, her eyes quickly adjusting to the light as she quietly yet swiftly made her way to the landing and snuck a peek outside.
“The zombies are gathered around another staircase, probably leading to the necromancer’s basement, but they seem blocked,” she reported as she came back. Neville had never heard her talk that much. “I think the plan went awry.”
“Fuck,” said Neville, drawing a surprised look from the priest. “Sorry,” he continued, “but we must hurry. They might be dying down there!”
“How many zombies can we deal with? Ximea?” Maylin asked worriedly.
“One. Two, if we push it.”
“Good,” replied the ginger, biting her lip as she momentarily hesitated. “Two, then. I’ll pull them.”
Waving her hands in strange patterns, she took a few steps to reach the landing. Two small balls of fire were launched from her open palms to the inside of the entrance hall. Immediately, Maylin’s face paled as she dashed backward. “They’re coming!” she shouted as she made her way behind the priest, her hands never ceasing in their fluid, unnatural movements.
“Neville, with me!” shouted the priest, brandishing the chair like a shield in front of him. “I can’t do much right now; I need your help!”
Neville gritted his teeth, standing still. He knew he had to go forward, he knew that he was the one who had originally suggested fighting, and yet his legs seemed rooted to the ground. He just couldn’t make them move.
It’s not my fault, my legs just won’t move!
“Neville!” the priest looked back anxiously as he roared. “I can’t hold them by myself, I NEED YOU HERE!”
Maylin and Ximea were behind Neville, staring wide-eyed. None of them was a front-line fighter. Daryll was no longer looking at him, instead crouching behind his chair-shield as he braced for the impending impact.
Holding his own improvised weapon, a broken-off chair leg, Neville looked down and realized he was shivering. What am I doing here? Why did I ever want to be a hero? I don’t belong here, I’m just a farmer! I don’t want to fight!
“Neville! Get yourself together!” shouted Ximea, though Neville couldn’t hear her, lost in his own thoughts.
Two zombies appeared from the end of the stairs. They were horrifying, disgusting creatures, with black eyes and mouths too wide to be human dominating their faces. As they bolted up the stairs, Neville saw their mouths open even wider, revealing sharp teeth, and he imagined they were grinning and staring right at him. He saw Daryll set his jaw and clench his body.
Memories of his last fight against the zombies flooded his mind, an image of him screaming as one of the creatures bit into his arm and refused to let go. His legs almost gave way. For a moment, he felt despair. He was going to die.
But then, as all seemed lost, he felt rage creep its way inside him. I was brave. I dared to dream, I dared to take the leap alone, to leave everything behind, to adventure. How do I deserve this? I don’t deserve this! I don’t deserve this! Damn you all! If I’m dying, then I’ll go down fighting!
Harnessing his indignation to wrestle his fear, Neville shouted with all that he had as he forced himself to step forth, blocking the stairs with Daryll. His instincts were shouting that he should run, that he would die, but he used all of his pent-up frustration, rage, and even his fear itself to push back, forcing all that he had into these feelings to prevent himself from listening to the terror.
His adrenaline spiked, and the two of them finally collided with the zombies, one undead slightly pushed back by Daryll’s shield while the other was struck by Neville’s weapon, more by luck than skill, the boy himself suffering long, bone-deep gashes across his right arm. They were pushed back even though they had the high ground—so great was the strength of the undead—and Neville’s arm was bared to the bone where struck, the zombie’s attacks threatening to flay him into red ribbons.
Overhead, flames were flying, hitting the zombies and burning them, but they didn’t seem to feel the pain. Daryll was faring slightly better than Neville, but his chair-shield had been broken into pieces in a single attack, only leaving him with two long pieces of wood.
Finding their footing, the zombies attacked again, and Neville was certain he was about to die. There was no way he would survive another attack from these enemies, but, at this point, he felt so detached that he simply braced himself to defend. It felt as if watching his body fight from somewhere outside, as if the one fighting wasn’t Neville but someone else, his mind cold and his body consumed by burning rage. And someone was screaming. Was he screaming?
Suddenly, a slim figure flew over his head, blond hair tied in a bun as Ximea made an impressive somersault above all fighters, her improvised glass dagger biting deep into the back of a zombie’s neck as it immediately dropped to the ground, losing all ability to move. Neville was saved. Ximea’s feet landed gracefully on the stairs behind the second zombie, the one attacking Daryll.
As Neville looked on, shocked by the unexpected turn of events, the second zombie slammed into Daryll, biting into his shoulder as both he and Ximea attacked it. Daryll screamed, and the zombie, losing its ability to move, fell back, rending a long, bloody gash on Ximea’s cheek with one final clawing as it collapsed and slid down the stairs.
Daryll remained kneeling on the stairs, screaming as most of the flesh had been torn off his shoulder, while Maylin also kneeled over, putting her hands on her knees as she heaved, exhausted.
They were Classed warriors, but it only took two zombies to bring their party to the brink of collapse.
“We can’t go any further,” said Ximea, touching her cheek wound. “We did all we could.”
Neville looked around, still shocked he was alive. Daryll was clearly out of commission, too busy screaming to do anything else, while Ximea was ignoring him and whispering something to the apparently exhausted Maylin.
Now that their fight was over, and the downstairs sounds of battle had begun to fade, Neville felt pride. He’d managed to fight through his fear, the first step toward being a true warrior.
I may not be a hero, but at least I’m no coward either, he thought. He didn’t feel any braver now; in fact, he felt even more terrified than before, but he’d overcome his fears once. He could do it again if he had to. Hopefully.
“I can still fight,” he forced himself to say, gulping. Although his arm was burning, the wound was deep but small. He could still fight. Then again, if he had to fight anything here by himself, he would die even if he was still in perfect health.
Maylin rose and opened her mouth, only to be abruptly interrupted by Ximea. “We can’t,” she said in a tone that brooked no discussion. Daryll was also clearly out of the fight, a green light slowly swirling around his wound as he chanted something, healing him slowly. Too slowly.
Neville gulped again. “Then, I’ll go. You just…watch the rear, okay? And please come when you can.”
He received no response, but he squashed his hesitation. He walked down the stairs, not looking behind in fear of changing his mind. He knew that going down was stupid, that he would almost certainly die without changing anything, that he might even impede Crabby and the orc. His arm was still pulsing with pain, but those two heroes might need help, perhaps some help that he could offer. He was weak, but he might not be useless—and, most importantly, he felt that he had to go or his dreams would turn to dust.
As soon as he stepped on the stairs’ landing, a blinking exclamation mark appeared in his vision. Opening it, a look of surprised joy spread across his face.
Class selection! I finally made it!
Then, his eyes widened as he read through God’s message. Hero!?
TWENTY
THE SADDEST SMILE
Many thoughts swirled in Oreg’s mind, vying for his attention, as he regarded the corridor in front of him and the stairs at its far end. He’d barely managed to glance at the room that now lay behind him, the one with the goat creature where Phac had run to, before he had to turn around and hold his ground. There was no time to take another look as undead were already streaming out of the staircase, the elite ghoul at the front, and they would be upon him almost instantly. He crouched, lowering his center of gravity to enhance his stability.
A good way to die if I fail, he mused, as everything seemed to move in slow motion. In battle for a worthy cause. A good death for a warrior, indeed. The ancestors will be proud when I meet them in the Fertile Lands.
I hope Egna is also proud of me…and that she grows well, even without a father. At least she’ll know that I died worthy, fighting to protect the tribe.
These were his thoughts, what he knew was right, and yet, he couldn’t stop his chest from tightening at the thought of his daughter’s face when she learned of his death. But those were not the emotions of a warrior, only those of a father, and he swiftly quenched them, for now was not the time for sentimentalities. He was an orc before he was a father.
Death was not certain, but given the sea of undead rushing at him, it did feel quite probable. He tightened his grip on the greataxe. It’s time for you to shine, my old friend.
“For the tribe!” he muttered as the ghoul, rushing at the forefront, reached him. For my daughter’s future, my life is a small price to pay. He took a deep breath, then filled the narrow corridor with his bellow: “BOR'GAH!”
There were two doors to his right and left, one open and one closed. As the ghoul reached him, Oreg, the Level 22 warrior, smacked its side with a calculated swing, deflecting the undead’s blow and launching it right into the open door. Heh.
Right behind it came the zombies in rows of two, as no more could fit in the corridor. Grabbing his greataxe’s body as far behind as possible to extend its reach, Oreg attacked furiously, losing himself in battle. Each zombie by itself was incapable of defending against his ferocious blows, but together, they were able to deflect them to the point where he couldn’t deal a finishing blow. He was still able to knock them aside, delaying them, and even push them back occasionally. Their screams of hunger and mindlessness as they advanced were only matched by the sounds of blade cleaving flesh.
Oreg was steadily taking steps backward—the zombies were advancing faster than he could push them back—but he did have a few more meters to go before he reached the open room where Phac was fighting, and the open field that would spell his doom. The ghoul quickly escaped the side room Oreg had pushed it into, but, due to the zombies advancing, it was now trapped in their midst and unable to attack. In powerlessness, it went berserk, hacking into its underlings to make its way to the front.
As the seconds went by, Oreg managed to gradually destroy the zombies. One had its head cut off, another its throat pierced, a third was cut cleanly in half. As their numbers thinned, he also noticed that there seemed to be three zombies fewer than before, though he had no time to ponder why.
However, as he killed them, so did they land blows on him. His strikes weren’t perfect, and a few glancing strikes met his body for every mistake. Most were stopped by his armor, but a few weren’t, and every successful blow increased his chances of making more mistakes, wounds accumulating at an ever-increasing pace. This had to finish soon, or he wouldn’t last.
Eventually, only one zombie was left, along with the mostly unharmed ghoul that was much stronger than its brethren. Its strikes were strong, requiring Oreg’s full strength to block or deflect, allowing the zombie to attack. Eventually, panting and bleeding, the orc let the zombie bite into the back of his forearm before swinging it into a wall, smashing its head against the dark bricks—but the ghoul capitalized on this opening, its hard nails digging deep into Oreg’s flesh as its sharp fangs bit into his shoulder and easily penetrated his leather armor. Oreg roared in pain as the ghoul swung its head from side to side, tearing his flesh apart.
Throwing his greataxe away, Oreg grabbed the ghoul’s head with his big, green hands and yanked it away, flesh and uprooted muscles splattering everywhere. The ghoul coughed in laughter as it spat out Oreg’s flesh and blood.
“Your kind is tasty, orc,” it said, hungrily staring him down. “I look forward to devouring your tribe.”
Mad with rage and adrenaline, Oreg’s already bloodshot eyes went wide with anger. He opened his mouth and roared at the undead, spit flying over his sharp tusks, while the ghoul’s lips formed into a dark smile. Forgetting about his greataxe and the undead’s sharp nails, the orc lunged, drawing his enemy to the ground and into a frenzied melee with their lives—and undeaths—at the stake. Oreg’s heavy punches were devastating, breaking bones with every swing, but the undead’s claws were sharp, constantly rending flesh from bones.
As they rolled on the ground, the ghoul grabbed onto the shoulder it had bitten before, tearing into green flesh as it reached all the way to the bone and yanked it out of place, dislocating the orc’s shoulder. A horrific cry of pain resounded in the basement as the battle-hardened orc despaired, grabbing the ghoul by the back of its neck and raising it high in the air before smashing it face-first into the ground as hard as he possibly could, the hard rock fracturing from the force of the blow as the ghoul’s half-obliterated head went still.
Oreg didn’t stop, smashing the ghoul’s face against the ground repeatedly, until all that remained was a bony, disfigured shape.
He finally threw the ghoul’s destroyed body aside, spitting blood on the ground as he grabbed his greataxe with his good hand. His reason returned as he growled. “Serves you right.”
