The Legend of Fatality

"Arrow! Arrow!"

Sir Whitman waved his blade above his head, the torch gleaming on the steel. In the unnatural darkness that enveloped the cemetery, the knight's sword resembled a banner, attracting the peasant to his place. He glanced back at the risk of being cut with a knife, trying to walk through the darkness to see how many people were moving from the position to reinforce the enemy's south wing.

Too little, too slow, Sir Whitman confirmed this. Most villagers have never even participated in a fight in a tavern, let alone a real fight between life and death. He saw several people collapsed to the ground in horror, holding the wall of the ditch tightly like a baby grabbing his mother. It would be nice if the local nobles listened to him. It would be nice if they sent dozens of soldiers and a few knights.

Sir Whitman blamed his thoughts. It is useless to hope for what is impossible, and there is no reason to blame the frightened for fear. Everything is in the hands of the gods.

The Duke of Blood Eagle suddenly launched the attack silently. One of Arnold's pilgrims saw them first. The man just left the trench to disarm, and then he hurried back to the fortifications, muttering a group of dead people coming out of the village of Jirel. Soon, the first zombie appeared in the flashing light from their torches.

The flying arrows knocked down several decaying creatures, but even when they fell, they were silent, and their movements were strange, more like a broken puppet than a dying person, which made the farmers The archer felt terrified. With each volley volley, their shooting became more unstable and inaccurate. At first, their arrows were amazingly accurate, but then they became as messy as any giggling lunatic. In order for the archers to shoot their arrows at the oncoming enemy, Sir Whitman and Arnold were forced to maintain a series of orders.

Although they shot chaotically, when their enemies reached the wall, the team of zombies opposite had become quite sparse. The undead clumsily fumbled for the fence, trying to crawl through the soft soil. The peasants and pilgrims crouching in the trenches stood up. The peasants pierced their spears out of the trenches and pierced these rotten creatures, so that pilgrims holding sticks and mace could crush their rotten skull .

Sir Whitman thought they would hold the position until a second wave of attackers appeared behind the zombies. These are human skeletons without flesh, mobile skeletons dug from their ancient graves. Their armor is heavier and more complete than the rags and rags worn by zombies. Each skinny fist has a steel sword or an iron spear. Regardless of the number of people or weapons, these skeletons are much stronger than those of Sir Whitman.

When Sir Whitman crossed the team of skeletons on the road and found the terrible general behind them, he felt his blood was cold. The general was riding a spooky horse, crimson-colored Ma Kai hung on the horse, and the red armor shone under the torch. Sir Whitman noticed that the fierce owner of the horse noticed that when the farmers approached Whitman himself, the monster's face was twisted into a mask full of evil and joy.

Sir Whitman is no stranger to undead. In the name of the gods, he vowed that in Burtania and elsewhere, he fought against their evil forces. He has sneaked into the catacombs of several vampires, bringing them justice from Natal. But this monster is different from those in the tombs. This monster is different from others. Its merits haunt Aquitaine for decades. This is not the unknown monster in the night, this is the Duke of Blood Eagle, a black legend came back to visit his enemies and complete his revenge on the living.

For the first time in decades, Sir Whitman felt fear flowing in his veins. He glanced from east to west and found that neither side of the cemetery was attacked. Maybe there is still time to escape. He could order a retreat, allowing Arnold and his pilgrims to play as a defender when others fled.

Then the idea made him ashamed. This is not just about his life and honor. The Duke of Blood Eagle must be prevented from entering the chapel, otherwise all of them will have to sacrifice their lives. Now, this monster is just their threat. But if he could find the bodies of the knights who had been defeated, the Duke of Blood Eagle would pose a threat to the entire Burtania.

Sir Whitman brandished his sword over his head and shouted to the peasant archers to let them shoot their arrows at the oncoming enemy. But he waited a long time before he heard the sound of the first volleying arrow, and he immediately turned and walked to the trench. Under a joint attack by a zombie and a skeleton, when the villagers fell, he rushed to protect a farmer named Pierce. When the zombie pushed him to the ground and his rotten fingers grabbed his coat, he yelled in horror. The skeleton raised a corroded bronze axe, ready to hack the screaming man.

Sir Whitman in black clothes rushed silently towards the monsters like a dead soul. His sword slammed into the skeleton's arm, splitting it in half, and the axe and forearm twirled and disappeared in the dark. In the same brutal sweeping blow, Sir Whitman pierced the zombie's scalp with the tip of his weapon, opening the rotten head like opening a jar of stinky jam. The monster trembled and collapsed on the farmer, greasy brains running down the rotten face. Sir Whitman swept back with his blade, chopped off its spine and made it twitch on the trench floor, completely resolving the disarmed skeleton.

The rescued peasant crawled out from the motionless zombie, his face pale with fright. The man didn't even glance at the spear he threw away, but turned and screamed and ran out of the battlefield.

Sir Whitman watched the escaped man stumble across the cemetery. He couldn't blame him for this person's fear, because doing so might destroy all of them. His expectations of these peasants who do not understand the art of war are limited.

The knight noticed movements between the tombstones and soon forgot the running farmer. This is not the healthy running of human beings, but the running of disgusting non-human animals. Sir Whitman was very familiar with the way the undead moved, so he could identify the ghoul's animalistic galloping.

He cursed himself for being a fool. He focused his attention on the Duke of Blood Eagle, treated him as a monster, and forgot that he was first and foremost a man who had led the army in battle. The opponent's seemingly unintentional attack is not a monster's unthinking attack, but a feint carefully planned by a tactician. When Sir Whitman concentrated his forces to repel the Duke of Blood Eagle's attack, the knight had opened the way for the monster's more agile slave to enter the cemetery from behind.

"Arnold!" Shouted Sir Whitman. "We were attacked from behind! Rush! Withdraw to the chapel!"

The knight's order must have been heard by the Duke of Blood Eagle. Immediately, the intensity of the offense increased, and these mindless monsters became more fierce. A barbaric vitality was injected into the skeleton and the body of the zombie trying to occupy the trench. A ghost wearing a hazy white robe appeared in the middle of the archer. When she opened her mouth and made a deafening scream, her beautiful face was corroded into a slanted skull, which scared people to kneel on the ground.

Sir Whitman clasped the helmet in his hands, trying to block the scream of the Banshee. Even if her scream pierced his brain like a hot iron, the knight would not be shaken. He resolutely turned and ran to the church.

His sword swung out and cut off the neck of a ghoul who was eating the body of the pilgrim. The cannibal fell on the victim. Another ghoul stood up, her chin was covered with blood, and a man's toes were sandwiched between her fangs. Sir Whitman kicked his foot out, and his boots beat the guy's face. The ghoul, like a wounded evil dog, whined and ran away.

Sir Whitman turned around and left the savage scene and continued to rush towards the chapel. He saw a skinny man in a shabby black coat standing in front of the steps of the chapel, his arms reaching towards the iron gate. There are no ghouls here, only one person. Sir Whitman's internal organs were full of hatred. Only one kind of human will fall to the point where they can communicate with those monsters and ghouls. Generally speaking, knights try to keep calm about the killing, but killing the necromancer is a kind of happiness, and no godly calm heart can calm down the happiness.

As Sir Whitman approached the church, another pair of ghouls stumbled from their food. His sword pierced the shoulder of a monster and made a creaking sound when he pulled it out, leaving the guy lying on the grave, blood spewing out of the ghoul's broken blood vessel. The second monster rushed at him, his long claws spread, trying to tear the knight's flesh. Sir Whitman turned from the ghoul's swoop, and when the beast flew past him, his sword snapped. The sword was cut from the ghoul's back, and it was cut in half above its waist. The impulse of this incomplete monster caused its two halves to roll around in the grave.

Jeffrey turned around in panic, noticing that the ruthless knight in black came over. The necromancer raised his arms in front of him, almost pleading. Sir Whitman was indifferent. He could feel the power accumulated in the evil mage. He pointed his sword at Jeffery, clearly showing that the wicked should not be merciful.

The necromancer sneered, then released the spell he cast. Sir Whitman felt a violent burning in his chest, and the little crow amulet he was wearing turned red, burning energy, and absorbing black magic against the knight. As Sir Whitman continued to walk towards the church, Jeffery's sneer turned into a fearful expression.

Suddenly, a new opponent appeared in front of Sir Whitman, and a terrible figure lurched out of the shadow of the church. When the skeleton in armor raised his rusty sword and saluted him like a knight challenged, Sir Whitman hesitated. There is no humanity in the voodoo flame shining in the groove of the skull lord ’s head, but some shadows of this person still hover in the bones of the monster Salute. This kind of etiquette is for the living, not for the undead. Instead, the knight rushed towards the skeleton, his sword flashing a deadly arc in the air. Sir Whitman's sword swept over the enemy's shoulders, and the guy showed unexpected agility when evading the attack. And when the rusty sword of the Undead Knight slashed into Sir Whitman's armor with such great force, the armor was almost torn from the fastener, and then the fleshless skeleton grinned at Sir Whitman. .

Then came a cruel duel between humans and monsters, living people and undead. The two fighters fight with the same skills. But in this terrible duel, skill is the most unfair. As seconds turned into minutes, Sir Whitman's energy began to decline. Muscle tension, muscle fatigue, wound pain, these are beginning to weaken the knight's skills. Fear of failure tortured every thought of him, defiled the purity of his swordsmanship. If he fell, Sir Whitman knew that the chapel would be occupied, and the Duke of Blood Eagle would restore the ugly life of his dirty army.

But the Undead Knight was not disturbed in this way. Its muscles are dust, its flesh is only vague memory, and its wounds are nothing more than cracks on the ruthless bones. There is no fear in it, only the inviolable commands issued by the master. At every moment, Sir Whitman is weakening, but the strength of this undead knight is consistent.

In the end, Sir Kobinen's sword slipped past Sir Whitman's defense. The rusty sword pierced the armpit of the living knight and penetrated deeply into the body of the armor. When the injured Sir Whitman fell at its feet, Sir Kirbynin twisted his blade. The skeleton raised his sword coldly and paid tribute to the knight who was fatally wounded.