These Hallowed Bones - [Monster Evolution, Dark Fantasy, Heroic Undead]

I guide the ragged band northward, my borrowed bones marking the way. The stone-thrower Merik proves invaluable, maintaining order despite the survivors' obvious exhaustion.

Our trail tells a story of struggle - shuffling boots, children's uncertain steps, and walking sticks probing for purchase. My armored form leaves the deepest imprints, ancient plate pressing into soft earth with each stride.

When a young boy stumbles, I react without thought. His mother's arms are already full with our supplies, I offer my shield as support. The way he studies my skeletal fingers holds more curiosity than terror.

His mother's gratitude drifts. The sound carries meaning these borrowed fragments still recognize.

We follow the road's curve through towering trees. Their natural canopy offers welcome shade, so different from corruption's oppressive darkness. My sword remains at ready - these ancient bones remember well how swiftly peace can shatter.

An older woman stumbles. Others catch her before she falls. They share water, redistribute her load among stronger backs. The group adapts without command, protecting their weakest as instinct drives these bones to protect them all.

Merik approaches my position at the column's head. "How far to Haven?"

My finger traces numbers in dirt beside the road. Three marks. Days.

He nods, studying the survivors. "Some won't last that long at this pace."

My blade points to sheltered ruins ahead, an old waystation where travelers once rested. These fragments remember its walls still stand.

"We'll rest there," he announces. "Just long enough to catch our breath."

The group shuffles faster at the promise of rest. Their pace reveals reserves of strength hidden beneath exhaustion. Humans endure more than they know, as these borrowed bones well understand.

A child starts humming an old traveling song. Others join, voices soft but growing stronger. The melody carries them forward, step by step, toward temporary shelter.

The waystation appears as the sun dips low, its crumbling stone walls still offering some protection against the elements. The survivors set to work immediately, clearing debris, establishing a perimeter of wagons and stones.

Merik organizes watches while others prepare a meager meal from dwindling supplies. Children huddle close to parents, eyes heavy with exhaustion but minds too alert for proper rest.

I patrol the perimeter, borrowed bones sensing change in the air. Not corruption's taint, but something older stirring beneath ancient soil. My hollow sockets scan the treeline as twilight fades to darkness.

Something will come with the dark.

The herbalist approaches as I complete my circuit. Her knowledge of plants has served the villagers well in the days since we fled Joust.

"Something troubles you," she observes, eyes shrewder than her age suggests. "I've watched you long enough to read even bones."

I gesture toward the eastern treeline. Her eyes follow but see nothing in the darkness that these fragments detect.

"Danger?" she mutters.

I nod once.

She considers this, weathered fingers closing around a small pouch at her belt. "They need rest," she says finally. "Real rest. The kind that heals more than the body, the spirit."

Her meaning is clear. She too senses what approaches, though not as these magical bones do.

"I prepared valerian root and rathbane flower," she explains. "Meant for those with the worst injuries, but," She glances at the makeshift camp, counting familiar faces. "Perhaps better used for all tonight."

I tilt my skull, questioning.

"Deep dreamless sleep," she explains. "They won't hear or feel anything." Her eyes meet my empty sockets. "Will you watch over us?""

My response is a single nod. Certainty fills these borrowed bones.

The herbalist studies my frame for a long moment, then decides. "I'll add it to the evening broth. They'll sleep until dawn, no matter what comes."

She turns to leave, then hesitates. "What of the men?"

I trace symbols in dirt, a crude communication we've developed.

I stand alone. Better.

Her expression tightens. "You face it alone, or they die trying to help." She nods grimly. "Forgive an old woman's deception."

I watch as she returns to the cooking fire, adding her herbs to the communal pot with practiced movements. None question her - they trust the herbalist who has eased their pain since the journey began.

The survivors accept the meal gratefully, hunger overriding any notice of unusual bitterness. Even Merik, determined to stand first watch, accepts a bowl before taking his position.

One by one, they succumb to unnatural slumber. Breathing deepens. Bodies slacken. Even Merik, fighting the herbs longest, eventually slumps against a wagon wheel, his weapon still clutched in relaxed fingers.

The herbalist herself takes no broth, instead meeting my gaze across the dying fire. "I should stay awake," she says. "In case.."

I shake my skull once, firm denial.

"You think I should stay out if the way," she says, no accusation in her tone. "Perhaps you're right." Her eyes drift toward the sleeping survivors. "My duty is to them anyway. If you fall."

I gesture toward her belt pouch, where other herbs surely wait.

Her expression hardens with understanding. "Mercy if all is lost. Yes." She nods, reluctantly sipping from her own cup. "I trust you'll not need my services tonight, guardian."

Her eyes grow heavy despite her resistance.

"Wake me if," Her words trail off as the herbs claim her consciousness.

I stand motionless at the edge of our makeshift camp as darkness claims the land.

Night drifts across broken ground, turning scattered stones and twisted roots into pale shapes against shadow.

Behind, survivors rest behind a crude barricade of wagons lashed together with old rope, stones piled to form a low wall. All sleep soundly, protected by herbs from the horrors that approach.

My bones cast long shadows across their sleeping forms. The sword in my hand remembers old battles never fought by this body.

I stride beyond that circle of warmth and mortal breath, facing the east where a faint stirring hints at restless things.

These borrowed fragments hear what mortal ears cannot - the distant rattle of ancient armor, the hollow scrape of bone on bone, the whispered promise of violence carried on wind that smells of open graves. A legion approaches, summoned by the scent of living flesh. Centuries of forgotten soldiers, rising from shallow graves where no honors marked their passing.

The earth itself trembles with their awakening, a subtle vibration these fragments feel through armored boots. Not random wanderers or chance encounter - purposeful hunger drives them forward. They come as an army, remembering only that they once fought, once killed, once died. Now they seek to do it all again.

The living need quiet to mend their wounds. I will see they get it.

17. Legion of the Forgotten

Shapes form from within the gloom, silhouettes of figures half-rotted, armor rust-eaten, swords chipped to dull edges.

They move without grace, their limbs jerking as old joints protest long years underground.

Empty sockets fix on the distant scent of breath and blood.

No thoughts guide them, no reason. They are dead soldiers, stripped of purpose except the hunger that draws them onward.

Purpose calls these bones toward their hunger.

The dark shrouds their approach, but I see them through the shifting mist. I move to intercept, drawing them away from sleeping survivors.

The first trio advances like drunkards.

One drags a halberd that scrapes dull lines across the earth. Another hefts a battered shield, its crest lost to centuries of weathering.

The last wields a sword but has no hands, just bony stumps that clamp the hilt through long-dried tendon. They spread out slowly, as if remembering old drills.

No words pass, just the chattering of rusted mail and toothless jaws.

I meet them beyond the perimeter, stepping lightly over a ridge of tangled roots. My sword rises, my shield angles forward. The moment they sense my presence, they lurch into a ragged charge.

Their weapons rasp, ancient metal protesting motion after too many silent years. I catch the halberd's swing on my shield, momentum passing through lifeless bone, and respond by slashing through a gap beneath its breastplate.

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Old bone splinters.

The dead soldier staggers, collapsing as I tear my blade free. Another's blade rattles against my own.

Sparks fly as I drive it aside and open its ribcage with a single heavy cut.

Loose vertebrae spill into dirt. The third tries to club me with its shield.

I let it smash into my shoulder, dragon bone absorbs the blow.

While it recovers from the swing, my sword snaps down, severing its neck. The skull rolls into shadow, still grinning but not moving.

Purpose does not drive these bones.

They fall silently.

No moans, no curses. Just hollow silence after my blade does its work. But as their pieces settle, others step forward from the mist.

More soldiers follow, first ten, then fifteen, then more. Now I see their weaponry: polearms missing half their blades, maces whose heads are lumps of rust, spears splintered into jagged points.

They must have risen from old burial pits, drawn by the scent of living blood. Or perhaps by the faint echo of my presence, an undead champion standing between them and easier prey.

They come at me in ragged waves.

I turn aside their clumsy strikes with the shield. My sword finds joints in their armor, cracks through bone, sends bits of dried marrow scattering.

One tries to cleave my helm. I let it strike. Bone chips fly. I drive my blade up under its chin, splitting old mail and skull in two.

Another thrusts a spear into my flank. I feel the shaft grind against ribs. No pain.

I twist, grab the spear and jerk it sideways, pulling its wielder off balance.

My blade finds its spine, hacks twice until torso and legs part ways.

More press in, emboldened by my stillness.

A foolish mistake. I surge forward, shield slamming into a cluster of them, knocking three into a heap.

I bring down the sword in two-handed arcs.

Bones crack under relentless steel. Limbs scatter.

Hollow eyes stare without recognition even as I butcher them.

The ground churns beneath my feet, old soil and ancient remains mixing into a slurry of filth.

Yet these are only the first ranks.

Beyond them, I sense movement. Scores of undead forms emerge from the treeline, from old trenches, from shallow graves hidden by ferns.

More emerge from shadow.

My blade is simple movement, strike, slash, cleave, and thrust.

Steel parts decrepit bone and weathered mail.

They press closer, driven by mindless hunger. My shield cracks against empty skulls. Three more take their place.

I lead them further away from the camp, stepping back one careful pace at a time. Each backward step invites them onward, away from sleepers who know nothing of the dark.

I must draw them out where their countless numbers can spread wide, rather than funneled straight at the barricade. Better they converge on me, an unyielding wall of bone and plate, than try to circle and catch soft flesh unguarded.

The living cannot survive such a tide.

They come in earnest now. A loose formation stretching left and right, weapons raised high. There must be dozens.

No, more. Scores, as the night deepens.

I spot a standard-bearer, a dead knight clutching a tattered flag. It charges without a voice, brandishing a cracked warhammer that could shatter mortal skulls by weight alone.

Behind it, a double line of infantry, shields interlocked in a mockery of old discipline. Further back, mounted shapes: skeletal horses bearing riders half rotten, lances held crooked but still deadly at the tip.

I shift stance.

If they come as an army, I will face them as one champion. My shield raises, sword lifting to point at the mass.

They shamble faster, drawn to challenge. The first collision is brutal. The standard-bearer swings wide, hammer crashing into my shield.

The force sends me sliding back. I let momentum carry me, twist, and step inside its guard. My sword rakes down through its shoulder, splitting old mail.

It stumbles, I tear the blade free and strike again. The hammer falls. Another blow from me severs its legs at the hip.

I pivot as the standard-bearer collapses, its ancient armor clattering against stone. The warhammer drops from lifeless fingers. No time to pause, more undead press forward, their weapons glinting dully in the darkness.

A spear thrust catches my ribs. I grab the shaft, using it to pull its wielder off balance while my sword cleaves through its spine. Another attacks from the left, axe swinging wild. My shield catches the blow, and I respond with a precise cut that severs its head.

The infantry line crashes against me like a wave of steel and bone. Their shields lock together, pushing me back. I plant my feet, dragon-reinforced bones holding firm. My sword finds gaps between their guards, splitting mail and cracking ribs.

They try to overwhelm me with numbers, but these borrowed bones remember siege warfare. I use their press against them, letting their own weight create openings.

The mounted shapes draw closer, hooves striking hollow against packed earth. I need space to face them. With a surge of strength, I slam my shield into the infantry line. Bodies tumble backward, their formation breaking.

I spin back toward the fallen standard-bearer, its form still twitching with unnatural motion.

Its skull caves easily beneath my armored boot, ancient bone splintering to dust. The banner it carried lies forgotten in the mud, once proud colors now reduced to tatters, whatever heraldry it bore lost to time.

Before I can recover, their shield wall slams into me. Scores of rusted blades hack at once. My shield catches many, but others strike where I cannot guard.

Chips of bone fly from my arms, my leg is cut clean at the knee by some ancient halberd's curved edge. I topple. They surge forward, a press of bodies, splintered armor grinding against my own.

From the ground, I lash out. My sword carves ankles, shins, anything within reach. I hack apart their supports, sending them crashing down atop me.

The pile grows. Dead soldiers tumble like loose firewood, broken by my blade. I pull myself free, bones reassembling even as I fight.

My missing leg reattaches from fragments called back by magic older than these foes can recall. Standing once more, I press forward, shield rattling as I bash into their second line.

Their weapons ring against my metal plates. My blade answers, these new dead spill blackened marrow.

I cut through torsos, split helmets, tear arms from sockets.

Each strike reduces them to heaps of lifeless bone. Now they know the cost of facing me, though they cannot truly know fear.

A horn sounds from the darkness. It must be a relic call, echoing from some commander who still believes in order.

The undead respond, shifting tactics.

A squad with long spears tries to encircle me. They press from both flanks, iron points thrusting at once.

I spin, steel flashing in moonlight. I take two spears at the shoulder, letting them shatter bone, as my blade shears through hafts and skulls.

They fall, and I move again, never allowing myself to be pinned.

More climb from shallow graves at my back. I feel their weapons strike my armor. A sword lodges in my spine.

I reach over my shoulder, wrench it free along with an arm still gripping it. The arm's owner stumbles forward, I slam the hilt of its own sword into its skull, caving it in.

Another tries to tackle me from behind. We tumble to the ground. It rakes at me with rusted daggers.

I stab upward beneath its chin. Bone fragments drizzle down like brittle hail.

To the east, a line of archers appears: emaciated shapes holding bows strung with sinew. They draw back arrows fletched with rotten feathers.

I see their eyeless sockets fix on me. Then arrows fly.

I raise my shield, catch half a dozen shafts that snap or stick. Some arrows bite into my ribs where armor was torn away.

They lodge there, quivering.

Pain does not matter, but I note the force. Another volley comes.

I charge them, sprinting across uneven ground where corpses and shattered mail litter every step.

A mounted knight tries to intercept, lowering a lance aimed at my chest. We meet in a bone-rattling clash.

The lance splinters on my shield, the horse's skull grinds against my blade as I slash across its head.

The horse collapses mid-stride, pitching rider and mount into a heap. I trample them, blade hammering down until neither moves.

By the time I reach the archers, they release a final volley. Arrows punch through gaps in my armor.

My forearm bones crack under a heavy shaft.

I ignore it all, crashing into their ranks. My sword cleaves through three at once, their flimsy ribs collapsing. Another tries to flee.

I tear off its skull and fling it aside.

They come without end. The ground must be layered with centuries of old warriors who never found peace.

Now they rise at the scent of mortal lives sleeping behind me.

I will not let these hungry dead disturb the living.

A pair of hulking shapes emerge from behind a shattered oak trunk. These are larger than the rest, draped in partial plate that might have once belonged to champions.

Each wields a colossal weapon, greatsword and a war-axe. Their heads tilt at my presence. I brace myself.

The greatsword whistles down. I raise my shield, but the impact forces me off my feet, driving me into a pile of broken skeletons.

Before I can rise, the war-axe swings horizontally, catching my midsection and scattering half my ribs. My sword arm strikes blindly.

I hook the blade behind its knee and yank. It topples with a crash. I scramble atop it, sword hacking again and again, splintering its heavy plate until I reach the spine and sever it.

The other brute looms, tearing me free from its comrade's remains. It lifts me overhead, attempts to snap my spine like a twig.

Bones grind, but I do not yield. My sword arm twists, driving steel into its wrist. It drops me.

I fall awkwardly, snatch up a fallen spear from the ground, and hurl it. The spear drives through its skull, pinning it to a half-buried shield.

It struggles, trapped. I rise and finish it with a downward chop that splits helm and bone in one stroke.

A shriek that is half wind, half memory echoes from a distant ridge. I see a figure clad in ancient plate, more intact than the rest, mounted atop a skeletal charger.

A commander of old armies, perhaps. It lifts a sword etched with runes and points at me. At once, a swarm of newly risen troops emerges from behind it, rushing downhill.

More? I brace, sword raised to meet them, though my shield is lost somewhere.

They crash into me like a wave. Spears and swords thrust from all directions. I spin, blade whirling, hewing limbs, smashing skulls.

Bits of armor and bone rain down. They stab me repeatedly, trying to break me faster than I can reassemble. I lose an arm here, a chunk of spine there, but always I reform.

A kneecap lost beneath some corpse crawls back moments later. I am tireless, and they are mindless.

Eventually, mindless always fails against tireless.

I carve a path.

Moving over torsos and skulls that crunch under my heels. Their numbers thin. The commander watches from the ridge.

I climb toward it, stepping through piles of broken bone. The commander urges its steed forward.

We meet and then we fight.

It raises its rune-carved sword. I see sparks of old power flicker in empty eye sockets. This one might recall a fraction of who it once was.

We cross blades.

Its strikes are precise, each blow aimed to shatter a key bone. It nearly takes off my sword arm at the elbow.

I counter, my blade scraping along its breastplate, sending up bits and sparks. It counters, thrusting at my skull.

I tilt just enough to spare my head. We fight on a floor of shattered bones.

It tries to drive me back into the masses, but I hold my ground. My sword slips under its guard, bending its breastplate inward.

It snarls silently, hammering at me with its shield. I lose half my ribs. I answer by severing the arm that holds its shield.

The arm falls away, and so does the shield. The commander tries one last desperate cut.

I meet its blade, lock swords, and twist.

Metal shrieks. I pull it close and drive my sword into its helm. The helm cracks, and the spark of awareness tries to leave.

It slumps in the saddle. I shove it off the horse. The horse rears, tries to bite me. I cleave the horse's skull in two.

The field is quieter now. A few stragglers remain, animated limbs crawling without torsos, headless bodies swinging weapons blindly.

I step through them, chopping methodically. Each strike ends another restless fragment. I move slowly, ensuring none can rise again.

The hush grows as I silence their clattering bones.

Broken weapons lie everywhere. Mounds of armor, skulls, ribs, and femurs form grotesque heaps.

Black fluid, dried marrow turned tar-like, coats my blade and armor. Still, I sense an undertone of energy.

Even now, some might try to reform. The power animating them could linger, waiting to raise these scattered remains again.

I cannot allow that. The living behind me deserve a dawn free of this threat.

I stand amid the carnage, sword raised high. The night air smells of old decay and iron.

My armor hangs in strips. My shield is lost. Arrows protrude from my torso.

Yet I stand. And I hold the blade that remembers older laws than this foul magic.

One word forms at what would be my lips if I had any, "Aeternus."

The sword responds. Ancient runes ignite along its length, pulsing with a cold, pale radiance.

The light spills over the field of slaughter, revealing every shattered helmet, every sundered breastplate, every fragment of bone.

The magic seeps into them like final judgment. I feel resistance, a silent protest from whatever force holds them.

Too late. The blade's power knows its purpose.

Pieces of the undead tremble, then lie still. The echo of their false life snuffs out.

The runes flare brighter, then fade, leaving silence so deep it presses on the senses.

None will rise again. The field, though strewn with horror, is now truly quiet. I lower the sword.

My bones feel heavier as the strange energies settle.

The living still sleep behind their barricade.

They know nothing of the struggle that raged in the darkness.

That is how it must be.

I turn back, stepping over tangled remains. My missing shield is found and retrieved. My armor hangs in tatters but will serve until repair is possible.

Dawn approaches. Soon, the survivors will wake to find a morning not cursed by the dead.

They will not see the fields beyond their camp or know how close doom crept. They will load their wagons and continue toward safer lands.

Perhaps they will wonder at my damaged state. Perhaps they will guess at a struggle fought on their behalf.

I approach the makeshift barricade just as Joust stirs from his half-sleep. His eyes widen at my condition, but ask no questions.

Instead, he nods once, understanding in his gaze. "I will tell them only what they need to know," he whispers.

I incline my skull in agreement.

The dead remember duty longest.