Chapter 6 - The quick and the dead

Here you go: The much delayed chapter six. For new readers, chapter one is here. C&C is very welcome alnd looked for - so please comment - even an 'I like it' or a 'I hated it' would be good, although telling me why would be better. Also please tell me what you think about the leangth of each chapter, I'm trying to shorten each chapter to make reading less intimidating, so this may be the new leangth. Good? Bad? Don't give a damn? Tell me what you think. Or don't, it's your call.

Jarrod sprinted though the temple, Iryl having trouble keeping up on his shorter legs. The grim obsidian setting wasn’t registered by Jarrod’s mind, his mental focus on Ægon’s predicament. Bursting through the front door Jarrod ran to the top of the stairs and leaped out over the ring of black clad knights defending the stairwell against frothing fanatics. He landed in the pressing mass of fanatics, whose sudden frenzy to catch him managed to only wound their fellows. Jarrod ducked an axe swing, drew his dagger, deftly knocked aside a thrust from a kitchen knife and dived under a barbed whip as he charged through the mass, utilising the momentum from his leap. Iryl stood at the top of the stairs, barely seen over the armoured shoulders of the giant knights of Morr. Iryl cast his magic around for dead bodies, and found the graveyard. Again he heeded Vince’s warning and avoided disturbing the rest of these souls. He however drew upon the mana swirling around the massed cadavers. He raised the only other bodies available to him, the casualties of the battle in front of him. As he concentrated an azure glow emanated from his eyes as the recently dead began to move again, once more with purpose. A terrifying purpose; a horrifying hunger. Hunger for the flesh of the living, an insatiable desire to feed.
The zombies slowly rose to their feet, bleeding and mutilated by weapons and the crush of iron shod boots. Dead eyes gazed out, seeing and searching for food. Others, blind felt out and grabbed at any living thing they could feel. Legless corpses crawled along the floor, sliding on the blood soaked obsidian tiles, and adding to the gore. Entrails spilt out onto the ground as cadavers shifted and hunted for the living. The worst were the ones with their faces covered in open sores from the flagellants, a grotesque sanguine mask of cuts oozing crimson blood down the creature that once was human.

Where a sane person would have withdrew on terror or disgust at the mangled corpse-puppets, the flagellants screamed with fury and turned to face them. The remaining inquisitors resolutely stood firm, holding up icons of faith and chanting. As the words of faith came unheard to the zombies’ ears Iryl redoubled his efforts, holding firm against the priestly magic. Holding the zombies to the coil was constant struggle against the Inquisitor’s relics; sweat oozed from every pore on his body. Where before the hardest part was keeping them from attacking and attempting to devour Jarrod and the black clad knights, now keeping them moving was requiring almost all of his strength.

Jarrod emerged from the crowd covered in blood. He picked his way across the courtyard, avoiding the fallen bodies that had not risen. The ring of priests broke again as he bolted towards them, the standing inquisitors’ threats ignored before the more immediate fear of this blood-soaked avenger. Jarrod ignored the fleeing priests and barrelled into the closest inquisitor, using his shoulder to force the giant man back on his comrades. As the group fell, off balance, Jarrod drew his sword with his free arm and slashed out with it, whilst raking his dagger down the chest of the inquisitor.

Crimson blood spurted from the wounds, a sanguine river pouring forth from the ugly gashes. White robes stained red with the splatter and gore. The remaining inquisitors struggled to escape the dead weight of their wounded comrades. Jarrod leapt onto the pile of dead bodies, stabbing down with his two swords to kill the two closest of the inquisitors, before lifting his gore covered blades and striking again and again, like a demented snake, plunging steel daggers into soft flesh. Jarrod laughed with the voice of a madman, seeing death in all its guised coming for him and all around him. Reapers of Morr came in droves, taking the souls of the departed back to Morr’s Gate. Every visage was a different glimpse of death, some hooded, some helmeted, some showing grotesque heads, and some no more then empty clothes. Some carried swords, daggers or other implements of death, more carried scythes of various makes and designs. They all were macabre visions of mortality, of time, and death.

Jarrod rose and screamed in terror and exultation. He charged though the mass swinging his swords at the avatars of death which surrounded him, swords passing through their ethereal forms. Morr’s Reapers ignored him, and he screamed defiance in their faces. He moved through the ghostly mass of bodies that weren’t, bellowing at their silent demeanour; he challenged them all to fight, to take him, to kill him, to notice him. He yelled until his voice was horse, and he could yell no more. Only when his voice was going could he hear the insistent comforting voice in his ear. “It’s ok. It’s over now.” Jarrod turned to Ægon, and in a scratchy whisper replied “I know. Everything is over.”

If you want to read on, chapter 7 is here.