Chapter 336: The Hall of Wounded Men |
The Hall of Wounded Men
Healing Hall
The air inside the hall was heavy and tense. There, the remaining Sky Riders and select men-at-arms who had gone downstairs to confront the Saint now took refuge. They had returned bloodied from the fighting below, their desperate escape through a swarm of undead leaving many in critical condition.
Even the squire and the bailiff had not escaped unscathed. Though the other men had done their best to shield them while carrying the wounded on stretchers, the effort still left them exposed. Both had taken blows and cuts to their limbs, and one had even lost a lock of hair to a strike that landed between helmet and shoulder. Without their armor, they would have been dead. Yet they were far from the worst hurt.
Others with them suffered stab wounds, cuts, deep lacerations, and even horrendous bite wounds from the undead, injuries that would likely fester and rot the limbs if left untreated. The three field physicians and fourteen infirmarians, already busy with ninety-one wounded, worked as best they could to keep everyone alive, but even they had no certainty when it came to wounds inflicted by such fell creatures.
But the men’s sacrifice had not been for nothing. Sister Anna and the other gravely wounded brothers-in-arms had all been brought back safely from the retreat and now lay on mattresses awaiting examination.
The SAR Captain had by then been moved onto an examination table. His arm was weak, and his grip had lost its strength. The length of time he had gone without breath had taken its toll, and he would require a long period of rest to recover.
Watching them all while seated on an empty mattress, Sir Harold received his second and third stitches. One was on his left arm near the elbow, from a rondel dagger. Another was for a cut along his jaw that had nearly reached his ear. Even with full body armor and his excellent swordsmanship, against such a swarm, he had been unable to block everything at once.
But without his personal sacrifice, the men under him would have suffered an even greater loss.
Both of his hands were wounded as well. His gauntlet had broken in several places. Two of his men tried to fix it, but the metal was too badly bent. Three of his fingers were bloodied and nearly crushed. His knuckles were split and swollen, and the backs of his hands badly battered from striking skulls and jaws so hard in such close fighting.
Aside from the two SAR men who had remained with him, excluding the guest and the squire, Sir Harold now had only around sixteen men still capable of bearing arms.
Still, though their bodies were not gravely injured, even the veterans were shaken by the appearance of the undead. No one had ever expected to fight such fell creatures. Moreover, the loss of brothers such as Gregory and four others, men known for their prowess, weighed heavily on them. Those men had been courageous and exemplary in almost every major battle, and now they were dead and might yet rise again as undead.
That thought made even the strongest men uneasy. They could not help but wonder what would become of them if they fell.
To be denied a warrior’s death and rise instead as one of the damned was a fate too vile to accept.
From the front, the SAR named Walter approached hurriedly, drawing many eyes to him. “Sir,” he called, almost in a whisper.
Sir Harold turned to him, still pained from the stitching as his wounds were being bandaged. “What did you find?”
“We hear a great deal of movement outside.”
“Have they found us?” Sir Harold asked as calmly as he could.
Walter hesitated, but could only nod.
Sir Harold let out a sigh. The men around them, along with the lady infirmarian, looked deeply concerned.
After their last contact with Sir Morton and the Vice, they had barred the door and dragged beds, cabinets, tables, and even chests filled with linens before it, practically sealing themselves in. It had simply been impossible to evacuate all the wounded. Many were half-conscious, and numerous others couldn't walk. Now, despite precautions such as dimming the lights and keeping silent, the dead had found them.
No sooner had Walter given his report than screeches rose from outside, followed by the hard clang of blades striking the sturdy wooden door.
Eleven men stood guard near the barricade, exchanging worried glances, yet also offering one another quiet encouragement. They hoped the barricade would hold. After all, the undead had shown no greater strength than most men. Yet none inside dared breathe a sigh of relief, for the threat was too real.
Heavy thuds kept slamming into the door. The old oaken planks groaned as metal scraped across them.
The men inside could only wait. A few hurried to the barricade and tried to shore it up again, though none could tell whether it would make any difference.
Amid the tense waiting came the sound of trumpets from the five narrow windows overlooking the courtyard. Everyone turned their gaze to the back. The wounded squire who had remained there as a lookout hurried to Sir Harold.
“Sir, the army is fighting in the courtyard," he reported.
Sir Harold could only nod. He should have been leading them, but he could not leave the wounded behind. The Lord would be his judge, whether this proved dereliction of duty or the burden of a commander. Even so, he had full faith in Sir Morton and his Vice.
Amid the hard thuds and scraping blows against the door, Walter muttered, “I still don’t get it. Why choose to battle in the open?”
“Likely at Sir Morton’s suggestion," Sir Harold answered. "The Mage Knight knows more than we do about fighting such fell creatures."
Walter wasn't so sure. “Would it not be better to fight where walls or doors could thin them?”
“Perhaps,” Sir Harold said. “But mind you, these undead do not tire and simply throw themselves at their enemy. No door or tight space will block them. Meanwhile, our men tire and need to rotate, and in tight confines, there is hardly any space to do so.”
Walter nodded, slowly conceding the point. “Perhaps the open ground is the right answer.”
The squire asked, “Do you think this battle will distract the undead from us?”
Sir Harold almost snorted, but his face turned grim as he spoke. “I put no stock in hope. Not before my blade has slain that bitch of a lich.”
The infirmarian, having gone to fetch more bandages and clean cloth, soon returned. She carefully wrapped his hands and applied ointment, taking care not to make his palms slippery. Then she wiped the skin around the bandages and. Satisfied with her work, she said, “This is the best I can do. I only wish I could tell you to rest, Sir.”
“This is rest enough,” the Banneret replied warmly, carefully flexed his fingers and limbs. The stitches along his left jaw stung and throbbed, likely from the vinegar wash and the medicated salve, but better that than rot.
With the worst of it patched up, he slid down from the mattress. Then he said to the squire, “Can you help me put my armor back on?”
Despite the bandages on his shoulder and neck, the squire moved at once, starting with the shirt and arming doublet. Walter stepped in as well to help with the breastplate and the rest of the harness.
Watching Sir Harold don his armor, the others still standing in the hall came to the same realization. There was no denying it. With the battle raging outside, no rescue would come. They would have to save themselves.
The banging on the door continued, echoing through the hall.
Meanwhile, outside, the battle still raged in the courtyard, drawing their attention away from the pounding against the sturdy door.
But then a thunder of heavy steps rushed straight toward the Healing Hall. It drew nearer in an instant before slamming into the door with a violent crash that shook the whole hall.
“What the fuck was that?” Walter muttered, quickly moving toward the men gathered around it. The others looked no less alarmed.
“Sir,” the squire muttered in worry.
“It must be the large one,” Sir Harold answered calmly, recalling the burning silhouette that had climbed the stairs as they fled the underground floor.
For a moment, there was no sound, and many dared to hope the terrible crash would not come again. Then came the heavy retreating footfalls, followed by another impact that made the timber creak and groan.
Sir Harold sighed. Had it been only the undead striking at the door with swords, the door would have held. But he knew that not even the burning barricade at the stairs had stopped this large creature.
The men could only gather and wait nervously as the ramming continued. Each blow crashed against the door and sent a shudder through the heavy timber and its iron hinges. It was stoutly built and thick, yet even so, it trembled within its stone frame. Dust drifted from the ceiling with every blow. The crossbar and the barricade creaked and shifted.
Again, the door was struck. Then again.
In front, Walter and his men saw the damage done to the door. He turned and looked at his brothers-in-arms, then drew his sword and addressed them. “Gentlemen, prepare yourselves. We fight not only for our own lives, but for our wounded brothers and the healers among us.”
The men roared to steel themselves. Preparations were made for the fight to come.
Sir Harold’s sword was too blunt to be of much use, so he headed toward the corner where a collection of weapons rested against the wall. There he found spears, shields, and a few poleaxes. Many had been confiscated from the Monastery men. He calmly considered what to use until he found a boar spear. He took it, tested the hardness of its shaft, and gave it an experimental swing. Its weight, balance, and grip pleased him. Since his days as a squire, he had trained with every kind of weapon, and he had often used a boar spear in the hunt.
He also took two other weapons, a cheap-looking but sturdy glaive, and a heavy single-edged sword that many called a falchion. He fastened that sword to his belt.
As he brought them to the front, the squire met him. “Sir,” he greeted, “I found a glove from one of the wounded. I believe this would fit.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Gratitude,” Sir Harold said as he put it on. It was made of sturdy leather, with bits of metal on the back of the hand and across the knuckles, and it fit him comfortably despite his bandages. It was no armored gauntlet, but it would do.
At the front, the first wooden plank across the door burst apart, and the pounding only grew more frantic. More timber cracked under the assault, and the men readied themselves either to brace the barricade or strike the creature when it broke through.
After several more thunderous blows, the wood finally split wide enough for them to glimpse the perpetrator. Its skin was blackened, likely from the fire on the stairs. Its face and body were swollen and rotting.
“One of the big ones,” the men muttered, recognizing the black-and-red robes.
The creature kept pounding.
“Walter,” Sir Harold called as he approached. "Take charge of the defense.”
“Sir?” The SAR hesitated, plainly doubtful.
“I can’t lead while I fight,” he explained. This time, Walter nodded.
The wood creaked again, and everyone inside drew sharp breath.
One last great blow nearly cracked the door open, but the crossbar still held.
“Come, lads!” Walter commanded the three crossbowmen. Finding a clear opening through the broken door and the shifting barricade, they unleashed a hail of bolts toward the fell creature. Every shot struck true, yet it barely flinched and continued slamming into the shattered wood. Behind it, the shrieks of the undead could already be heard.
Another thunderous impact slammed into the door. The wood creaked, then split. The crossbar lurched loose at one end, and with a great heave from the creature, the door was forced open.
“Let fly! Aim for the eyes!” Walter shouted, and every man with a crossbow loosed his bolt.
Two struck its cheek, and the creature instinctively raised its massive arm to shield its face, even as it rammed through the piled furniture of the barricade. Two wardrobes and tables were hurled aside.
The men kept attacking, but it seemed to have little effect. As the creature nearly broke through, Sir Harold stepped toward the barricade.
With whatever intellect it still possessed, the hulking creature seized a chair and hurled it at him with tremendous force.
“You ugly bastard,” Sir Harold snarled as he evaded the throw, the chair shattering on impact behind him.
The creature reached for another, but Sir Harold had already launched himself into a powerful sprint, gripping his boar spear tightly.
“Eyahh!” He drove in so fast that the creature was forced to slam a table before it in an attempt to block him. But amid the flying splinters and broken wood, Sir Harold leaped and thrust the boar spear with all his might. The broad, leaf-shaped spearhead punched through the creature’s chest and buried itself deep.
Even numbed by pain, the creature knew it had been struck badly. Seeing the spear lodged in its body, it instinctively tried to knock it away. Sir Harold held fast and defended himself without wrenching the boar spear free. When the creature blindly swung its heavy arm downward, he caught the blow on the shaft and used its force to drive the broad boar-spear blade downward, ripping open the creature’s swollen, protruding belly. At once, a great wound split across its gut, releasing a torrent of dark blood that contrasted horribly with the pale, slick intestines and the yellow matter spilling out like pus.
The men gave a harsh roar at the sight.
Yet the hulking creature groaned, more maddened than before, and thrashed against the boar spear, Sir Harold, and the barricade with even greater fury. Sir Harold was forced to let go and evade its frenzied movements. It was huge and hulking, yet still capable of sudden bursts of movement.
The boar spear was flung away and lost amid the scattered wreckage of the barricade. Sir Harold was about to draw his blade when he saw Walter and the others charge with their spears.
Five men struck the creature from different angles, driving their spearheads into it. Yet it still swung his arms wildly. Two men were hurled aside. Sir Harold seized one of the fallen spears and thrust it again into the creature’s chest. It wore no armor and now bore spear wounds all over its body, yet the creature kept thrashing as though scarcely affected.
By then, more men had retrieved spears or polearms and hurled themselves against the creature. Walter, Sir Harold, and seven other men strained with all their strength to hold it in place. Yet the creature still managed to move, and gaps opened for the foul undead to slip through.
“The undead, they broke through!” one yelled.
Nine men readily formed a line to meet this new threat. Sir Harold fought hard to keep the creature from forcing its way inside. “Aim for its heart or its face!”
Hearing him, Walter tore his spear free, dashed forward, and lunged at the creature’s face, only to have his weapon swatted aside by its massive arm. He drew his sword and tried to press the attack, but the creature was cunning and, with a surprisingly nimble movement, headbutted Walter and sent him crashing to the floor with a bloodied face.
“Pull him out!” Sir Harold shouted. His hands and arms burned from trying to restrain the creature’s violent thrashing. Even with this many men, they still could not overpower the corrupted creature.
One man who had lost his spear rushed to help Walter, only for both of them to be struck by a jagged piece of wood hurled from a shattered table. Somehow, Walter forced himself up, then crawled and dragged the man who had come to retrieve him to safety.
“Sir,” a man called, gritting his teeth as his feet skidded across the floor while he tried to slow the creature. “I can’t hold it much longer.”
Sir Harold had no answer but to force himself harder against the hulking mass. More undead slipped through. With the men distracted by this, the large creature grew bolder, thrashing wildly and overpowering the spearmen with every violent movement.
“Sir!” another shouted in warning before he was flung aside and crashed to the floor.
Two others were forced to let go, their spears flung aside in the creature’s rampage.
With only a few still holding it back, the creature suddenly charged at Sir Harold, who had his spear butt firmly braced against the stone floor. Yet, the shaft cracked and split in half. He drew his falchion and slashed at the creature’s hands, but even as he struck, he was slammed backward and sent crashing into a bed, snapping one of its wooden legs and toppling it to the ground.
“Sir!” the men nearest him cried, but all he saw was darkness.
...
The hulking creature stopped moving, not from the many deep spear wounds it had suffered, but as if admiring what it had done to Sir Harold. It let out a raw, rumbling sound, almost like laughter, while pus oozed from its torn belly.
Struggling to fight off the undead, the men could only look at one another in grim unease. Their champion had fallen. Before the creature could make its next move, two men stubbornly charged with their spears.
“Die, you pus-swollen bastard!” one screamed in fury.
Their bold act rallied four more. Even in the face of futility, the veterans refused to give up. Walter, despite the blood running down his face, deftly shifted men to plug the gaps in their fraying line of defense.
As the men fought the hulking creature and the growing number of undead, half of the infirmarians and two physicians rushed toward Sir Harold.
“Sir!” they called in panic as they cleared debris from his face and body.
Feeling the warmth of their hands, the Banneret slowly blinked and forced his eyes open. At once, he felt pain throbbing through his shoulder and elbow. His stitched jaw had bled, and the wound in his stomach pulsed with pain. He instinctively tried to rise, but his body resisted, as though he had no strength left, spent from all the fighting he had done that night.
“I’m all right,” he absentmindedly said as they helped him into a sitting position. But even that nearly made him black out. He shook his head hard, and his blurred vision slowly cleared.
“Get the bandages. He needs his wounds dressed,” the older physician instructed, though his eyes remained fixed on the creature and the undead, which were drawing ever closer to butchering them all.
After drinking some water to steady himself, Sir Harold saw that the ninety-one wounded had already been moved to the corner. A few of those still conscious met his gaze. He knew he had to fight for them, but at the same time, he knew this would likely be his last stand.
“Sir,” the lady infirmarian who tended him said with urgency. “We saw a white light just a moment ago.”
His eyes went wide as he turned toward her. He had never seen a more angelic face. “You what?”
“A white light bathed the courtyard. And, and—” she stammered as she opened her palm, revealing a thick silver necklace with an unassuming gemstone in the middle.
He recognized it and was baffled.
“One of the Umberlanders called to us and told me to pass this to you,” she said rapidly, fear of the fell creature inside the hall.
“Fluffy white fur one?” Sir Harold guessed.
“I believe so.” The other infirmarians nodded as well.
Sir Harold’s eyes changed. He took the gemstone in his gloved hand, but his injured fingers found it difficult to manage. “Help me wear it. Quickly.”
The infirmarian hurried to do so, knowing the battle had already drawn terribly close.
Then from outside came the loud blast of cornu, heard by everyone within the hall. It was loud and continuous. From its rhythm, it could mean only one thing: an all-out attack. Even those trapped inside felt their blood stir.
Sir Harold laughed loudly, as if he had gone mad, drawing every eye to him.
“Boys,” he called to his men as he rose once more to his feet. “Call me crazy, but the Lord and Lady truly watch over us.”
The men did not know what to think. The words rang hollow as men were flung aside, struggling to contain the hulking creature’s rampage. Two more had been stabbed by the undead and nearly trampled, forcing others to drag them to safety. Walter fought side by side with the squire, but even they were close to being overwhelmed by more than thirty undead. For all their desperate fighting, more of the dead kept pressing in.
“On your left!” Walter warned the squire as he parried a rusted blade.
Two undead climbed over the headless corpses and crashed into the squire, knocking him back before stabbing him repeatedly. In the nick of time, Walter vanquished the two and dragged the squire out, but the young man had already gone pale from the deep cuts on his arms.
Their line frayed. More undead spilled into the hall, bringing with them their foul stench and rotting limbs.
As more undead poured in and the hulking creature savagely hurled the last of the men aside, Sir Harold, without sword or spear, strode toward the cauldron filled with steaming foul water. No fire burned beneath it. The water had been heated elsewhere and brought here for the healers, first to wash wounds and linen, then later to soak filthy bandages before the blood could dry hard into them.
Taking some of the leftover bandages, Sir Harold wrapped around his gloved hand, seized the heavy chain, and began to drag it. The cauldron lurched onto its side and scraped across the floor, spilling hot water in its wake. The physicians and infirmarians could scarcely believe their eyes. That iron cauldron was so heavy it would normally have taken several men to carry on a shoulder pole.
Sir Harold dragged it at a brisk pace, a wicked grin already forming on his bruised and swollen face.
His return to the fighting drew nearly every eye. Even men in the midst of battle stole glances in stunned silence at what he had brought. He hauled the heavy cauldron through the hall, hot water sloshing over its rim along with darkened bandages and strips of cloth, and dragged it as close as he could to the rampaging creature. The creature began to notice him, but only dimly. It took him for no threat and continued battering the spearmen who were struggling to hold it back.
Then, with impossible strength, Sir Harold broke into a run, heaved the cauldron by its chain, and drove it into the creature’s chest with all his might.
While hurling pieces of broken cabinet at a battered man who still clung to his halberd no matter what, the creature saw Sir Harold too late. It tried to shield itself with its arms, only for the iron cauldron to smash into its left arm and hand. Bones cracked. Several fingers were bent the wrong way.
The fell creature groaned in shock, but Sir Harold had already hauled the scalding cauldron back and swung it again, this time into the creature’s face.
A sickening crack rang through the hall.
It howled in panic. Teeth flew. Its nose broke apart. Reeling, it nearly fell as it struggled to keep its footing.
The cauldron sizzled as undead flesh burned against its surface. Now knowing what had struck it, the creature tried to shield itself with pieces of wood, but Sir Harold was merciless. He swung the cauldron again at its head, slamming the arm and shoulder instead. Bone cracked, and the creature staggered backward.
With every backward step it took, more undead were trampled beneath it.
But the undead knew no fear. Twelve swarmed toward Sir Harold, as if recognizing him as the greater threat. Sir Harold brought the cauldron around in a violent arc and swept through them. When it struck, it landed with a crushing crash, pulverizing nearly all of the undead in its path.
“Kill them all!” Walter shouted, rallying the men.
Nearly all shouted out their anger and fear. The hall trembled. Each fought not only for himself, but for his brothers as well. Gathering the last of their strength, they fought to drive the undead back out. Even the physicians and infirmarians had taken up weapons, ready to finish what had begun.
Still, the hulking creature refused to die and kept them from sealing the door. Fearful of the flying cauldron, it seized the undead near him and hurled them at Sir Harold, who was forced to swat them aside with his left arm, having no other choice while wielding so unwieldy a weapon.
But cheap tricks would not stop a warrior like him. Having learned the cauldron’s balance and how it could be wielded like an oversized flail, Sir Harold began to swing it as he moved, building momentum with every turn. He gave his whole body to the motion, driving the heavy iron in fierce, unpredictable arcs that confused the creature. He stepped in and was about to hurl it straight into the creature’s face again, but the thing was ready with a fistful of undead.
Planting his foot hard on the stone with all his might, Sir Harold ducked beneath the thrown undead and changed the cauldron’s path, turning the swing from horizontal into vertical. It scraped across the floor, but it still carried enough force to launch into the creature’s jaw like an uppercut, striking with nearly full force.
A loud crack echoed in the hall.
The creature nearly lifted off the floor. Its jaw was shattered, and whatever nerve or sense remained in it was overwhelmed by the impact. At last, the hulking creature went down backward in a tremendous crash, crushing several undead beneath it and pinning them under its immense bulk.
Witnessing the feat, the men cheered fiercely, thinking it had finally died.
Sweating and breathing hard, Sir Harold wanted to finish the creature for good, but a swarm of undead at once stepped over it instead, like ants swarming over a carcass.
“I’m still alive, you maggot-filled scum!” Walter roared as he led his men against the new wave.
That action gave Sir Harold the chance to gather his strength. The hardest fight of his life was over. Even with the gemstone of strength, he was nearly spent.
“By the Ancients,” one of the men muttered, startling Sir Harold.
He turned his gaze back to the creature and saw that, even with its jaw destroyed, it was still trying to rise, brushing aside the undead that stumbled over it. Worse, he saw that some of the spear wounds had already dried and were nearly sealed over. Even from afar, the lich’s corrupted magic seemed to be in full effect upon the creature.
The men were aghast. “It can’t be killed?”
“No,” Sir Harold said, tightening his grip on the solid iron chain. “It just needs more convincing.”
***