Alistair found himself surrounded. The zombified hobs circled him while their orc friend forced the paladin’s attention elsewhere. He swung out with his pikestaff and decapitated the nearest hob, swiping its head clear off. To defeat them he couldn’t rely on them dying from grievous wounds. He’d have to destroy their bodies or remove the heads to be sure.

There were five hobs left with his quick strike. Before he could pick off another, the orc got itself closer. Their decaying forms didn’t have quite the same mobility, but the larger pig-man remained much faster than the diminutive hobs. It swung out with its weapon, another crude axe. Alistair used the solid length of his cold iron staff to block the attack. Sparks flew where the weapons met.

An intense contest of strength began as Alistair found himself struggling against the sheer amount of pressure behind the axe. The decomposing orc had somehow been made even stronger than its original body. Such power defied logic. A rotting corpse shouldn’t have had the muscle to put behind such an attack, and yet the paladin felt his strength fading under the force of the blow.

Alistair pulled back before he wasted more of his energy. The meat puppet let the weight of its attack carry itself toward the ground. This led to the axe sinking into the mud at their feet. At least the undead lacked common sense. While the orc attempted to pull its weapon free, Alistair brought the pikestaff high above his head. With all of his strength, he brought the blade end down on the orc’s arm, the one holding the axe.

What soft tissue was left fell apart under the weight of the blow. The creature’s damage resistance from before didn’t work quite the same way when its body was falling apart. Alistair smiled as he saw the arm come clean off at the socket. Shambler or no, this orc was going to have trouble with just a single arm. It didn’t seem perturbed by the loss though, as it bent down to grab the axe with its other arm now.

Before Alistair could attempt to stop it, the hobs leaped onto him. They were heavy things, heavier than the human shamblers despite their size. So much so that he was brought to one knee as they weighed him down. He found it difficult to shake them off, their grip impressively strong. And then one of them bit him, and he felt the stinging sensation of pain rush up his arm. Their bites were stronger than the humans too! Alistair sucked his teeth in pain as all five of them bit into his skin, on his shoulders and back.

Roaring with fury, Alistair took the one on his arm and slammed it into the ground. A palpable hit, but still it clung to him like its life depended on it. Again, more desperately, he slammed it to the ground and this time he managed to break its hold. With a hand free, Alistair reared his fist back and swung it as hard as he could into the hob weighing his pike arm down. Its face crumpled inward with a meaty crunch and its body flew a few feet back.

Alistair failed to react in time as an axe sunk its teeth into his shoulder blade. The orc had managed to free its weapon and attack with the other arm. Under assault from all sides, the paladin knew he had to take more of the creatures out of the equation. His polearm grew unwieldy in this short distance, so he had to grow the distance again. Something he couldn’t do with the axe stuck in his shoulder.

Let’s fix that.

Fighting through the pain, Alistair stood back up to his full height. The orc struggled to maintain a grip on the axe, still embedded in the Aegis’s shoulder. He socked the orc in the face with his free arm, though it didn’t do much good. Even with his strength, he couldn’t cave the skull in and the orc’s one arm kept holding on for dear life.

Thinking quickly, Alistair thrust forward with all of his weight. The full brunt of the Aegis hit the orc’s head this time, channeled through one vicious headbutt. This time the orc fell onto its back, the blue glow gone from its dead eyes. He turned his attention to the three hobs still biting him. The one biting into his thigh soon enjoyed the end of the pikestaff forced through its head, turning it into a piece of rotting skewer meat.

The two on his back were problematic. He couldn’t turn his arms enough to reach them. It almost seemed like they started to bite him harder as their comrades were killed. Eager to get them off, Alistair’s eyes darted around for options. He saw the trees in front of him and got a crazy idea.

With a running start, he dashed forward toward the tree and, at the last moment, turned so that his back would bear the brunt of the impact. This was enough to kill one of them instantly as it was squished between the Aegis and the thick trunk of bark. The other one didn’t last much longer as Alistair twisted and slammed the other side of his back into the tree. This made the hob lose its toothy grip and fall to the ground. Alistair smashed the egg-shaped head into a mushy yolk with an overhead thrust of his pike.

All of his enemies lay dead, permanently this time. He checked his vitality and was satisfied to see that he hadn’t lost as much as he’d thought. The vicious melee had only brought him down to three-quarters or so. Alistair winced as he removed the axe from his shoulder and threw it aside. Casting his eyes on the mess of a battlefield, he saw the bauchan and was reminded of why he’d come in the first place.

He ran over to check on the fae. One glance and he could tell there was nothing to be done. The paladin gently turned the creature over onto its back to get a better look. It had died at some point during the melee. All over its body were bite marks, and whole chunks of skin were missing. If anything, it was impressive that the bauchan made it this far given its condition.

There was no time to mourn. Alistair flicked his head up as he heard more sounds coming from the forest, from Deadwood proper. Wails, groans, and more hob chatter. He stood at a great disadvantage in this place. Saving the bauchan was impossible at this point, as regrettable as it was. When he stood up and made to leave, something stopped him.

The idea of leaving the bauchan’s corpse behind for the undead bothered him greatly. Alistair bent down and scooped the child-like body into his arms, then he ran without looking back. He made it to his horse and saddled up, in his human body this time. The bauchan awkwardly sat in front of him as he willed his steed to turn and gallop as fast as it could back to Bredon. With the fog being as thick as it was, he had to just hope the opposite direction of the trees would get him where he needed to go.

With this fog, he couldn’t tell whether he was making any progress. He had no idea how far Bredon was, or if he was still going the right way. Alistair’s naive thought of outrunning the undead was short-lived. The entire time he could still hear them trailing behind, somehow keeping pace with him. It shouldn’t have been possible, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling the fog around him was doing more than just hiding the enemy from his vision. He couldn’t rule out the possibility the dullahan had more tricks up its sleeves.

Alistair breathed a sigh of relief when he finally came across the outlines of buildings. He pulled on the reins and maneuvered his steed to enter the village properly. Once inside, he discovered the fog didn’t extend inside the village itself. He could see more than a few feet in front of him. This was good news.

He made it to the village square and found a group of townspeople milling about. They looked absolutely terrified, clinging to one another and pointing to the darkened sky. Alistair twisted in his seat and saw that the village was surrounded by fog. Not just to the east, but in every direction. The dullahan had properly trapped them.

“Milord!” Tamas hobbled over, flagging him down. “What’s hap—” The alderman got a look at the limp body Alistair was holding. “The bauchan? Is he alright?”

Alistair could only shake his head. “I’m afraid not. Someone take him for me!” A younger man came over and reluctantly grabbed the dead fae, awkwardly cradling it in his arms. “Get your people inside! Lock the doors, the undead are coming.”

“T-The undead?!” Tamas stuttered. The crowd’s murmuring grew louder as the people grew more agitated and afraid. He could see children and the elderly gathered too, all vulnerable. “How are we going to—”

Alistair dropped from the saddle and went for his pike again. “I’ll fight them off. Just get inside and stay there!” He turned back toward the sounds of the undead as they grew ever louder. “And someone get my horse out of here.”

The townsfolk, not knowing what else to do, did as the paladin bid them. None of them were fighters. They were the same as the folk Alistair had seen perish to the hobs near Wyrdwood. Simple farmers, unfortunate enough to live close to the border at a time of conflict. Last time, he’d failed to act in time to save them.

Not this time.

He watched as the square emptied of people. Some ran back to their own homes, while others went to the tavern or the other communal buildings. One boy managed to wrangle his gelding and move it somewhere, hopefully safe.

Satisfied the people were in relative safety, Alistair reached for his bandolier and popped one of the rejuvenation potions. He winced at the bitter flavor. Not something a person could get used to. Still, its healing effects would hopefully carry him through this fight. Alistair’s back was up against the wall, almost literally. There was nowhere left to run. He had to stop them.

The undead never ceased their wailing the whole time. It grated on his nerves. A lesser man would surely run in terror. He’d seen it happen before. Listening allowed him to gauge their relative distance. If nothing else he could tell they were moving closer rather than attempting to siege. More unsettling, he could tell the sounds were coming from every direction. They were spreading out, preventing escape.

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He refused to meet them unprepared. Alistair transformed back into his Aegis body and prepared to hold the square. With luck, the dullahan would show its face first so that he could end the battle in one decisive blow.

Alas, he had no such luck. The first thing he saw marching through the fog was a wave of shamblers. Humans this time, a horrid mishmash of shredded clothing, rotting flesh, and terrible smells. Running between their feet were undead hobs. Those were much more lively and quick. He watched them march in from the east field, then down another street to the south, and even behind him from the west.

Some of them, maybe even a majority, were headed toward the square. But Alistair saw an alarming number of them split off and start to batter on the doors of peasant homes. To get to them he’d have to break the enemy line first, and that was asking a lot given the sheer number of them. He couldn’t even begin to count the number of the undead facing him. Alistair tightened his grip on the pikestaff.

Lady, preserve me!

From the sky above, a ray of light broke through the fog to illuminate him. Alistair felt something rush through him, something warm and invigorating. His prayer, done in a panic to steady his nerves, had somehow been heard. In front of him, the Sight wrote to him.

Boon of the Lady

Activated!

The Lady has heard the prayer of a paladin, beseeching her for aid. She has answered the call. A temporary boost to vitality and all combat abilities have been granted.

The Lady was watching. These people were relying on him. He couldn’t lose hope, not yet. Alistair activated the Living Shield ability in an attempt to draw the full attention of the undead. It worked. Those that were beating down doors quickly turned and oriented themselves right back at the square, to Alistair. They all started to run, or move as quickly as their decaying limbs would let them.

Alistair knew that with their numbers, he couldn’t fight as he usually did. His tactics as a man-at-arms relied on a group of soldiers, each with their own spear or pike, thrusting forward to skewer multiple enemies. Alone, he would only be able to kill a few like this before the rest closed the distance. He’d already seen it happen twice now.

So, instead of couching the pike and using it as a spear, he adjusted his grip and held the weapon over his shoulder like a bat. When the front rank approached, he swung it in a wide and sweeping arc, with the blade-end out. The effects were devastating against the decomposing, unshielded bodies of his enemies. Six shamblers fell from the swing, a mix of heads and necks cut clean through. Their bodies collapsed and slowed the ones marching behind, saving Alistair precious moments. Moments he needed to deal with the hobs still in front, too short to be hit by the overhead strike.

Alistair brought his pike down and struck again, cleaving a hob in two. They were too scattered to strike multiple at once. One leaped at him like a frog. It received an armored gauntlet to the face. With the blessing added to his strength, this was enough to kill it outright. Another tried to go for his leg. This one was squashed underneath the sole of his boot.

He went for another sweeping strike, this one so low to the ground the blade dragged on the cobblestone catching sparks. It took out the last handful of hobs that made up the front rank. The blade cut through them like butter. This victory felt short-lived as the rest of the shamblers marched on. Alistair felt himself get cornered as the enemy came at him from the sides and behind him too.

With his new tactic, he managed to take out another couple of ranks before they could get close. Still, he was forced back further and further as they boxed him in from every angle. Soon enough the shamblers went for the age-old tactic of clambering onto him, trying to drag him to the ground. Alistair fought hard as he stabbed and slashed, and when that failed, he punched and kicked.

The human shamblers worked well with their hob counterparts. While the zombies kept Alistair busy, the hobs did the real damage with their bites. If anything he’d been lucky that there hadn’t been any orcs or skeletons supporting them, none that he could see at least. But their numbers were simply too great to deal with alone, and he found himself drowning beneath their combined mass. All the while, his vitality ticked downward.

In this desperate situation, Alistair activated his new ability, Adaptive Armor. When he activated it, he chose to enhance his damage resistance against physical attacks. His body glowed a bright crimson and the plates seemed to grow thicker and more sturdy. Soon enough, his dropping vitality managed to hold steady. Still, the added defense would only last a minute and he’d be back to square one.

As Alistair struggled to lift himself from the dogpile, he heard something over the incessant groans of the dead. First, it was what he thought to be the galloping of a horse, one that was being ridden hard and fast. For a moment he believed his gelding had turned around to somehow try and save him. But then he heard the telltale signs of armor, the clinking and clattering of steel plate as someone moved in heavy armor.

One by one, he could hear blades slice through the flesh of the monsters on top of him. Because of the effects of his Living Shield, the creatures were helpless. They couldn’t turn their attention away from Alistair, and so they were slaughtered wholesale by whoever had come to the paladin’s aid. When he felt the weight around him slacken and the enemy’s strength weaken, Alistair used that moment to push out and break free.

The cadavers on top of him gave way with ease. Their only advantage had been their numbers, and they’d lost much of their original force. Alistair grabbed the hobs still biting on him one by one, like the leeches they were, and tossed them aside. They were quickly dispatched by the rescuer, or should he have said rescuers?

Alistair could get a better look now. It was a set of paladins, each wearing a set of gleaming goldenrod armor with kilt-like leather fastened around the waist. The closest one took notice of him, a sallet helmet obscuring their facial features. There were three of them in total, each wielding the same kind of sword and shield, adorned with the heraldry of the person beneath the relic mantle.

Dogan Tolmach

Paladin of the Summoner

Summoner 8

Well Known & Unpredictable

The Sight gave him these details, but it gave the same name to each of the identical-looking paladins. While the other two proceeded to finish off the remaining shamblers, the isolated summoner approached Alistair. It confidently sheathed its sword and offered Alistair a curt nod.

“I’m late, sorry about that,” said the man. He spoke with a strange accent, one that Alistair didn’t recognize. The man had a southern-sounding surname, one that also marked him as a noble of some description, but he had an accent closer to someone from the coast.

“I’m just glad you made it in time.” Alistair recovered his pike from the ground. He watched on, impressed with the companions Dogan had brought along. They efficiently dispatched the errant shamblers and hobs, not a single extra blade stroke necessary, nor any theatrics or sounds of exertion.

From the corner of a building, Alistair saw something new. A floating specter, wielding a blade and cloaked in tattered robes, stalked toward them. He identified it as a wraith, a vengeful spirit with malicious intent. Alistair moved to block the creature’s path to Dogan and readied his weapon. With luck, the cold iron properties would still manage to harm the ghost.

“Stand back!” Alistair shouted.

“Wha—oh, that.” Dogan sidestepped deftly in front of Alistair and flicked his wrist. The specter dissipated into nothingness. “No need to panic. Just my summon, back from cleaning up stragglers.”

“Summon?” Alistair’s arms sagged to his sides.

“Of course,” replied the man. He stared up at the much taller Aegis, hand on his hip. “Are you saying you’ve never met a Summoner before?” The distinct pause between the two had Dogan let out a low whistle. “My my. These parts are really spared of any fun I see.”

The more Alistair heard him talk, the more he could recognize the man’s regal tone. It wasn’t the same as Kevin’s harsh pompousness, nor did it have the cold edge of Baron Caldwell. There was a measure of assured confidence in his braggart-like tone. Somehow, he sounded earnest.

“Well, you’ll really find this next bit odd then.” Alistair watched as the two other paladins, each a perfect replica of Dogan, marched over. Seamlessly, they walked into Dogan’s back and disappeared as if he’d consumed them somehow. “My doppelgangers aren’t much for talk I’m afraid. You’ll just have to put up with me.” He held out his hand. “Dogan Tolmach, though you already knew that. Alistair of Wyrdwood, quaint little name that.”

Alistair awkwardly shook hands with this man. He had to hunch over to do so comfortably. Just a minute ago Alistair had truly been facing his own death yet again, and now everything almost seemed back to normal. This Dogan didn’t seem the least bit concerned, despite the fact they remained surrounded by a deadly fog.

“You must be the one I was sent to meet,” Alistair said.

Dogan had been staring off into the distance. He perked up on hearing that.

“Oh, you too?” He chuckled with a kind of practiced laughter only a noble might have. “I’m trying to wrap up an artifact quest at the moment. The spirit told me I’d meet a fellow paladin on the way.” He gestured around the town. “Have to say, I wasn’t exactly expecting this for a reception.”

“What were you expecting then?”

“Something with a bit more kick,” Dogan said, shaking his head. “I’m a little miffed, honestly. I expected more from a dullahan. If only the bastard showed up himself. Would have loved to add him to my collection.” He let out a wistful sigh. “Ah well, it can wait a day. Let’s say you and me get a drink and something to eat, I’m starving.”

“Shouldn’t we—”

Before Alistair could suggest they secure the town and check on the townsfolk, Dogan was already walking away. He casually waved for the Aegis to follow after him as if a battle hadn’t just happened a few minutes ago. If he hadn’t been wearing armor, Alistair swore the man would have skipped his way to the tavern.

Alistair took one last look around and, once satisfied the town was still standing, he awkwardly followed his newly met compatriot. For the sake of ‘Liberality’ and all that.