What was more, the blood that oozed from these corpses was foul. It was far stickier and more viscous than the fresh blood of the living, and as it mingled with their putrescent bodily oils, the morass blunted his comrades’ attacks. The hefty armor that a few of these soldiers were blessed with was beginning to wear down some of the squad’s spearheads.
Spears were a disposable product in the battlefield. Some would inevitably warp or snap during the ordeal, but human blood and oils were the greatest enemies of a spear’s cutting edge.
They were only a small line of warriors, so no one had the wherewithal to drop back and gather fresh spears—not that they could, as Mottenheim’s supplies fell short in this regard.
“Holy hell, all this just for them?!” Siegfried muttered.
The first wave of zombies were disposable soldiers. Their self-destructive assault had given their allies ample time to approach in a formation of multiple rows. While the adventurers and the Watch had been fighting for their lives to dispose of the skirmishers, the back lines had gradually formed up together and begun their march.
There were three lines of eleven apiece. The sight was like something out of a nightmare; a bleak omen of imminent death. The first line of zombies had comparably decent armor, shields, and spears; those behind them bore poor armor, some only outfitted with a shield and spear. Still, they had arranged a menacing shield wall bristling with polearms—the front line had them held out to the fore, while the row behind held them higher in the gaps. It was a textbook phalanx.
“Dammit! They’re gonna be on us soon! Get those hips low and take ’em on. We ain’t got a chance in a battle of attrition!”
Despite the exhaustion that the Fellows and people of Mottenheim felt, they all fell into action at Siegfried’s command, getting their shields into place. There was no chance of escape at this stage, so it was better for them to take Siegfried’s advice to at least go out in style.
There was little chance that help would arrive. Facing an enemy that feared nothing and would fight on even deprived of their heads was nothing short of a sick joke. They would slowly be worn down to naught but stepping stones for the zombie menace.
Everyone knew as much, yet no one dared to retreat. Not a single person threw his spear aside hoping to save his own skin.
Each had their own reason. Mottenheim’s watchmen wanted to protect their home. Some had met a lovely woman during their short time here and couldn’t get her face out of their mind. Some Fellows thought that if they were to die, then at least they could earn an impressive engraving upon their gravestone. And of course, there were those who were here not out of pride as an adventurer but simply because this was what they said they would do.
Not the faintest shred of timidity remained in their hearts as the enemy’s main unit slowly approached. Their vanguard had been reduced to helpless pill bugs, curling and uncurling in the muck, unable to so much as headbutt the defenders—but the strength of their assault had never been all that important. Their push had quickly, conveniently forced the confrontation into the desired shape—their lives were ultimately meaningless. Not that an army of the undead had any reason to care.
“Bring it on!”
“Grgh!”
“RAAAH!”
A chorus of cries rang out as the clash began. Spearheads crackled as they collided with shields and armor; weapons clanged together. Where blades found their mark, blood erupted. For the zombies, this was perfect. Of course it would be ideal if they could crush their enemies in one swift blow, but in a drawn-out bout, forcing blood loss was ideal. Strong hits might break the enemy formation and cause their foes to scatter, but it didn’t matter at the end of the day. As long as they got up and close, then their reinforcements would have an easy time.
“Ngh... Don’t underestimate us!”
“Agh! I can’t see!”
“Stay standing! Even if you can’t see, keep striking—you’ll hit something!”
The zombies didn’t care about defending themselves. Even if the defending side managed to get ten whole hits in, it didn’t matter if the enemy managed to land a single direct hit or not—against mortals susceptible to pain, this pressure was more than enough to seize the advantage. A powerful blow to the stomach could bring someone to their knees. A slash at the forehead could blind a person and leave them screaming.
Living, breathing people would inevitably weaken under a tireless, merciless, ceaseless assault.
“Dammit! Push! PUSH! We have a chance if we can disrupt their rhythm and break their formation!” Siegfried roared.
“Wagh! They’re too heavy! Sorry, Bro... I can’t push ’em back!” someone replied.
“I don’t wanna hear your stupid sob stories! If you don’t wanna waste all that time you spent training with the sword, then clench those ass cheeks and push back!” Siegfried yelled.
Adventurers weren’t sturdy and handled battles of attrition poorly, so their one chance of turning the tables on the enemy was to shatter their enemy’s discipline and reduce the battle to a chaotic fray. With their honed sword skills, they were far more capable when it came to a free-for-all; if they could get some breathing space and throw the enemy into confusion, they would be able to win. If they could disarm the enemy, drive them to the ground, and protect their allies, then they could hold their own more easily.
“The potion is ready!” came a shout from behind the group. “Everyone, make sure you breathe it in!”
As the row of defenders were pushed back, a fresh fragrance tickled their nostrils. It was a concoction launched by the Merciful Sapling.
Kaya’s potions were designed to react once they made contact with oxygen, and many were designed to confer their effects on those who breathed it in. In usual cases, her recovery potions would inevitably heal the enemy too, so they were chiefly used in camp, but in this particular fight, that was a nonissue.
The herbalist’s potions worked by aiding the natural abilities of the body. To the uninitiated it might have seemed like her targets had suddenly got better, but the truth was that the majority of her potions were gentle things that merely boosted the imbiber’s healing factor. The men breathed in the potion and felt the energy flood through their bodies as their wounds began to heal and their exhaustion was swept aside. Stab wounds closed up; hematopoietic cells churned out more blood; metabolisms burned through the chemical traces of fatigue. These were all strictly privileges of the living, and so only the living rallied.
“Big Sis, you’re the best!”
“Big Sis Kaya, you rock!”
“You’re so cool! Let me sleep with you! No—please sleep with me!”
“Oy! The hell are you sayin’ while I’m here?! If you survive this thing, watch out, ’cause I’m gonna kill you myself!” Siegfried yelled.
Kaya couldn’t help but stifle a chuckle at the raucous voices of the men, even forgetting she was on the battlefield for a moment. She had been told to run once she had created the arrow-ward barrier, but she’d decided to remain with them, despite not having any armor of her own. How dare Siegfried accept the possibility of death and then force her away? She grabbed her partner’s cheeks and stole a kiss from him before berating him.
“Please don’t underestimate me.”
Kaya hadn’t chosen this life halfheartedly. It infuriated her when people looked down on her own decision to leave Illfurth, abandon her position as the only child of a respected healer’s family, and follow the path of an adventurer—of danger, peril, and death. Kaya had known these things were all very possible since before she had come to Mottenheim. She’d accepted it when she had watched her mother treat injured patients—it had long since been evident to her that an adventure was never as beautiful as the songs depicted.
There was something else that stung Kaya just thinking about it. Her role meant that her survival would prove essential in helping the canton once the fighting was over. And still she chose to be here. Just like everyone else, she didn’t want to close her eyes to the things that were to come. If the worst-case scenario were to arrive, then she was ready to incinerate everything in a sea of flame.
“PUSH!”
“STAB!”
The defending force had regained their energy and caused the enemy’s front line to waver with the force of their renewed retaliation. Thanks to their continuous bloodletting strikes, more and more enemy zombies started to collapse, having finally met their limit. They dropped their weapons as their shoulders were pulverized; their formation started to crumble as their legs were shredded away.