Broneslav spent a while the next morning cleaning his gear. The rock baboons had really made a mess of it, and it was rather too smelly for comfort, like the midden behind his grandmother's house. Then he set out, picking his way out of the jungle and up into the mountains ahead. As he climbed, he kept his eyes out for danger, and he was right to do so. Ahead, he spotted a group of mould-encrusted zombies. Unfortunately, they had spotted him too, and were heading in his direction. He could easily outrun them, even in this terrain, but they would certainly catch up with him when he stopped to rest. Feeling that he could not take a chance, he unshipped his bow and waited.
As the zombies reached the limit of his range, he fired his first shot. It was a solid hit and the zombie did not stand back up again. They shambled on and he took another shot. A miss. He cursed as a valuable arrow zipped off to be lost among the hillside somewhere. His third shot hit a zombie but the monster kept coming. The fourth wounded that same zombie, while the fifth slew it. With the zombies getting perilously close, he took one final, careful shot. A freak gust of wind carried it away from the zombies.
There was no time left. He picked up his shield and sword, and charged. Two zombies were brutally slaughtered in his initial onslaught. Claws shrieking on armour were testimony to the ferocity of the remaining zombies' attacks, and Broneslav staggered under the impact of five undead bodies, but he held his feet and fought on. He knocked the feet out from under one of them and crushed its head with his booted foot, even as he spun with a terrific blow that sliced through the neck of a second zombie and through the dried up, rotting torso of a third. Undeterred, the last two zombies clawed at Broneslav and tried to drag him to the ground, but to no avail.
Spinning on his toes once more, he grabbed his sword with both hands and unleashed a might roar. His sword might as well have been cutting through butter as it sliced a zombie in two, and the follow through gutted the last of the zombies.
Broneslav paused to catch his breath a moment before cleaning his blade and carrying on. As twilight arrived, he looked for a place to camp once more. Ahead he saw a slight fire. He tried to sneak up to see who it was, but a huffing noise followed by a low growl told him that he had been spotted.
Standing up, he looked over the rocks and saw a small hunting party of Rakasta gathered awaiting him. Two sabre-toothed tigers were standing alertly looking in his direction. Before he could even call out to ask permission to approach, one of the Rakasta beckoned him in.
"Welcome, Broneslav from the Far North. We have heard of you. You are welcome as brother and warrior to us."
From the sound of it, Rakasta moved faster through the jungle than he did, if this hunting party had heard of him already. He and the Rakasta traded tales and food, before Broneslav enjoyed a completely mosquito-free night's sleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment