VIII. The Night Siege, Second Wave
Alexius will hear that hiss for a long time after that.
Every second feels like a day. He spins around, throws up his shield. His eyes widen as he tries to stumble back towards the square. The creeper flashes once, twice, thrice, disappears.
The smoke comes first: white smoke that chokes his eyes and smells of sulfur. He feels as if he swims through a sea of honey and cannot bring himself to react. A thunderclap of devastating noise pounds his ears and an invisible fist slams into him, throwing him back with an involuntary grunt. The wind is knocked out of his lungs. He gasps and he cannot hear his own voice. He feels the night breeze on his skin as, just for one ethereal second, he floats through the air.
Then his body slams into a wall and he feels his body wail and an ocean of pain washes over him and every limb is on fire, everything hurts so goddamn bad. He wails in pain and he cannot hear his own voice. And for a foolish second his brain, delirious with panic, believes itself to be dead. I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead is what he thinks as his useless body slides down into the ground. Is this what dying feels like? He didn't think it would hurt this much.
God I'm an idiot, he manages to think. His skull bashes against the earth and the stars stop moving, sink into darkness. Vaguely he is aware of the sharp smell of gunpowder.
The night envelops him and his brain screams for its life, forces its limbs to move. He jolts into consciousness and thrashes around gasping. He feels dirt and cold stone on his back. His limbs and hands are trembling and his eyes are wide open. His breastplate is cracked and he sees himself in the fragments of his own shield, his face staring back at him a thousand times. Beside him are the splinters that used to be a shield.
Alexius lies in a crater and fights for his life. Breathe, his mind screams, breathe breathe breathe. Distantly the stars start to move again.
For reasons lost to us today, the Emperor did not directly attack the second wave of zombies which emerged from the center of Sarfan, at least initially. Reasonings have varied: some say that he was resupplying his arms, others say he was mobilizing other villagers into defending their home, still others argue that he was summoning golems to aid him in his fight.
Alexius tries to stand up and pain courses through his body. Eat, his brain commands, and numbly he reaches for the few porkchops and steaks he has left. He wolfs them down and he instantly feels stronger, healthier: another benefit of living in a game. His heart stops trembling. And his world is still silent.
He takes a breath, then two. They almost killed me, he thinks numbly. He looks down and sees that he still holds his axe, the dented and battered iron glinting still. He looks back and sees the horde of zombies that still are banging on the doors of the houses. He sees the villagers screaming inside.
Just a few hours ago he was holding his hand over Jacob's head and naming him. The kid loves to pick cornflowers in the fields and now he clings onto his father's robes sobbing. Azel's eyes are closed and Alexius sees his mouth move in silent prayer. He never did ask him who he prayed to.
Silent and cold is Alexius's heart. Alarm sings in his skull and adrenaline shoots through his body. Pain melts away. There is no fear now—only something deeper, something animal. They tried to kill me, he thinks again. The frozen shock thaws and he looks down at his axe again. Iron—cold iron—greets its master. He knows what he has to do and he knows what they will do.
He won't let it happen again.
He stands up slowly and his heart beats a wild, frenzied staccato rhythm. He cannot feel his feet walking him into the square. The iron blade drags on the earth.
It must be noted that here in the second wave of the siege, Alexius found his second stroke of luck: for so engrossed were the zombies by the allure of the defenseless villagers in their homes, and so dedicated was this army to targeting them, that they mindlessly did not notice Alexius approaching their masses from behind. And indeed it was their reckless and mindless desire for flesh that spelled their doom.
They don't even turn around, they don't even hear him. Their groans drown out his footsteps and not a single head looks back in the night. Idiots, he thinks to himself. He vaguely notices his head shaking as he corrects himself: No, not idiots. Animals.
Alexius's heart beats a steady war drum now and his hand is still. Something in his eyes sings an ancient hymn, far older than he, far older than the village. His eyes dance wildly to the rhythm.
Let's try something else, he thinks. The world holds its breath. Alexius holds his and he feels his hand jerk upwards.
The axe draws a graceful, glistening iron arc across the night sky.
For this foolishness they were all slain, and not a single zombie was left alive.
Cold iron sinks into hot flesh and drinks deeply from the well of undead bodies. A green mouth howls in pain and is silenced with another blow of the axe. All that's left is a puff of smoke and a pile of rotten, dessicated flesh.
There are no corpses, no bloodied fields in this world, and it fills Alexius with rage. The axe swings again and another zombie is felled with a groan, then another, then another. Some of the undead of the rear guard begin to take notice and mindlessly lurch towards the iron. Within three blows they all sink to the ground and become smoke and flesh. The blade grows hotter and hotter as Alexius's swings become wilder and wilder. One is axed in the neck and falls without a sound; another lurches directly into the iron arc and its head is split; a third falls to its knees, then dies with a groan.
One two three four five six seven just like that. This is no battle any more—history dictates that this be a slaughterhouse. And it all feels very, very easy.
Soon the remaining zombies peel themselves away from the doors of the houses and lurch towards him in mindless flesh-lust, and a trickle of enemies becomes a tide. Alexius puts away his axe, unsheathes his sword, and swings about—no need for stabbing here. With a graceful, almost elegant flourish of the blade the zombies are pushed back and the wave falters. He decides to lunge into the crowd assembled around him and carves a trench of rotten flesh and smoke all around. And they never stop coming towards him like pigs led into the butcher's house.
Here he stands in the middle of the square, a stone in a vast ocean of the undead, who, in undulating waves, lunge towards him in rings. Their groans are silenced with iron and the ocean becomes smaller, smaller, smaller. Rotten flesh piles up on the ground and its stench reaches the passing stars. The moon reaches the tips of the mountains and begins to sink in earnest now.
A great symphony crescendoes in Alexius's mind and a chorus of a thousand triumphant voices sing that ancient hymn. His iron revels in the flesh of what remains of the zombie army and the sword seems to lead him a frenzied dance. He doesn't have to count how many have been felled now; he can count the surviving zombies with one hand. Their groans are silent and their cries are muffled in his ears as they mechanically, almost instinctively, trail him. They really are animals, all of them.
All of a sudden he swings into air and trips over himself. Alexius stops and stares: the square is deserted and silent. All of a sudden the stillness of the air envelops him like a blanket and the faint echoes of distant golems begins to reach his ears. An iron man, standing still and alone like a statue.
If any zombies survive, he cannot find them.
He catches his breath and collapses to the ground, exhausted without knowing it. The Emperor pants like a dog and closes his eyes, trembling. His axe clatters to the earth and, as he sits, Alexius looks towards the butcher's house and sees little Jacob son of Azel staring at him with his father. They are both silent and their eyes are wide open. They seem terrified—no, amazed at this man. This is something they have never seen before, that no one has ever seen before. Their eyes and faces are enraptured.
Alexius stares back and stands, staggering under the weight of his armor. He forces himself to stand tall and proud as the first rays of light creep over the Plains and color his boots and breastplate brilliant reds and glistening oranges. Vaguely he imagines how he must look to them now—battered, bruised, wild, feral, half to death. But alive. Alive and victorious.
He feels himself smile.
Thus was peace and victory gained in a quick time by Alexius. And it was because of this great triumph that the villagers of Sarfan bestowed upon him his first title: Axe of the People.