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Chapter 4 - Team Bonding
Corpsescrew soon found that he didn’t have the dexterity he used to, as the crossbow bolt found a place in his left shoulder. Oddly enough, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as that kind of thing usually did. Not that he was a connoisseur or anything, but he had taken his share of projectile damage over the years as a… death knight, and they usually smarted a little more than this.
The bandit that had levelled the shot also shared a measure of the surprise - doubly so when the rigid form of the magic sword cleaved its way through his leather armour and split his chest open. Several ravenous zombies rushed passed him to grab and chew at the man as he fell to the floor.
Any pretext of subtlety had been lost at this point, as another bandit further in the camp blew a horn. Tents rustled and metal hastily clanked against metal as the group of criminals awoke and blearily attempted to arm themselves.
Corpsescrew looked down upon the slain bandit as his lifeless form was feasted upon by his new friends. There was a strange alluring draw to it. Part of it also disgusted him, and he was unsure as to which side was the right one. All he knew now was that there were people that needed to be felled. They may not be towering monsters, but what hero had not cut their teeth on the thieving bands of brigands that menaced the sleepy villages of the world?
As the death knight strolled methodically through the carnage, either parrying blows or ignoring the scant damage taken, he felt bad for his friends. None of the zombies were particularly good at fighting. That is to say, if they didn’t share his apparent damage resistance, they would put up as much fight as a box of wet puppies. It endeared them to him. They needed protection and feeding. He was their big momma bird, striking down tablatures of fresh meat and stagnant fear.
The light of the campfire flickered, casting long shadows amongst the dead and unliving, and illuminating the foul melee like a macabre dance show. Corpsescrew could see the fear in their eyes. Almost taste their wavering hope. This was glorious! He did not need their admiration or praise; there was no yearning to be accepted. He would kill and maim, spread fear and woe to those who stood before him.
He would become infamous.
The last dregs of the bandit camp turned tail and fled - none of the zombie gang had a chance to catch them up, not only because of their shambling gait but also because they were too preoccupied with the spoils of war. The bandits could run. Perhaps they would spread the tale of what occurred and lay the seeds of fear into many more succulent minds.
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Corpsescrew wedged Impureheart into the loose soil and wiped the blood from his hands. He had never fought with a cadre before. Where they lacked in the martial proficiency required to keep pace with the death knight, their dedication to keeping foes down for good once injured had allowed him to cut a swathe through the rough bandits unhindered.
With his putid posse sated by the meal the battle had wrought, he was now somewhat lost as to what to do next. There was a lingering feeling that there should be someone to lead him to the next fight.
“Hey,” he addressed one of the nearby zombies, who had lost half of their face in the skirmish. “How do I speak to Mistress Death, and get more orders?”
The living corpse gave the approximation of a shrug. “We were just an expendable force to weaken up the area; there was no order for us other than to eat.”
“Huh.” Corpsescrew folded his arms and looked around the camp, trying to tune out the sound of wet munching. “Where does the Mistress reside?”
“About three days shamblin’ to the East. Big castle, can’t miss it.”
The death knight knelt down by the half-consumed bandit and put his (relatively soft) hand on the man. A foul energy flowed through his arm and the dead-eyes came to life with a corrupted yellow glow. The first breath of undeath gasped through empty lungs as the felled bandit joined the endless ranks of the undead.
“Oh, hi. Got quite the jump on us there; well done,” the newly minted corpse exclaimed as he went to stand on shaky legs.
One by one, Corpsescrew walked around the scene of battle and revived what partial bodies could at least walk. Surprisingly, none of them seemed to bear any grudge against him, accepting their brief perversion of life as frankly as a slightly inconvenient spell of rain. Much more considerate and thankful than that other walking corpse he used to know.
Surveying the scene, he did a rough head count, rounding up for those with only partial heads. Despite his earlier transgressions and a few losses to the bandits, their number had swelled modestly to just over two dozen - almost three. Not quite the amassed horde he could imagine being the leader of, but with three days of travel, perhaps they could pick up some new recruits along the way?
“Army, to me!” he called out, wrenching Impureheart from the floor and raising into the air. Malicious eyes and empty sockets swivelled towards him as the horde shambled towards him.
“Mistress Death may have considered you expendable, but I do not. To me you are family. I am a hammer and you are the anvil, and between us, we will temper the living into submission!”
“Er, this kind of sounds like rebellion - union rules.” A small voice whispered out from the back of the group.
“We are simply going to request a task that befits our station,” Corpsescrew gruffly disagreed. “If you want to go off to the village to have your unlife squandered by some do-gooders then so be it. But I want something more.”
His smile radiated, wild and unnatural in the pale light of the moon.
“I want to take over the world.”