I’ve always had quick reflexes, even as a boy. That was what saved me. My sword was clumsy, still weighed down by its scabbard, but came up fast enough to catch the quarter-staff perhaps a half-yard from its tip. I did not stop the blow, but I slowed it enough that its impact left me seeing stars rather than seeing nothing at all.

  My legs gave out, and I dropped the torch as I fell away and just barely caught myself with a hand on the wall. Sounds of violence rang out behind me while I shook my head clear, and I glanced up to find the undead had turned itself on the rest of the group. Laryck, currently, was holding it back. He was struggling, somehow. A head and a half taller than the undead—which was not itself small already—and with probably three times the mass of its desiccated and shrivelled form, he nonetheless gritted his teeth and grunted with the exertion of holding it back. Muscles jumped like thick ropes in his arms, tightening around the bones. I’d only ever seen him exert himself so much hauling entire beer kegs overhead at the town’s fair.

  Seeing that now definitely didn’t incentivise me to jump in and help. What did was the knowledge that it was four on one at the moment, and the very strong desire not to let the monster turn that into a singular fight against me.

  There were two options to achieving that end, as I saw it. Running now or fighting it while I still had allies. My legs felt like jelly, and I wasn’t certain how fast it was to begin with. Reluctantly, I threw myself into the fight. This time, though, my sword actually came free of its scabbard.

  I slashed the undead, right across its back. The thing wasn’t armoured, exactly, but wore thick clothes much like Laryck’s makeshift protection. I felt fabric part all the same, and saw a flap of withered skin come loose a moment later.

  The undead turned on me, at that. I didn’t see any hate in its eyes—I didn’t see anything at all. No pain, no impediment from its wound. Laryck, the idiot, eased up his hold for a second and it shoved him, sending him back to round on me as Vara and Will yelped. They tried to come after it, too slow. It charged on reaching out with clawed fingers, quarterstaff discarded.

  Reflex alone moved me, instinct. My arm jumped up and my wrist flicked, fingers tight. My knees twitched and curled, back leaned it. It was, quite possibly, the finest thrust I’d ever managed up until that point. This was what adrenaline does to a Hero—but I didn’t know it then. I just thought I’d gotten lucky when the tip of my blade smacked clean through the undead’s eye socket and exploded out the back of its skull.

  “Ah, my practice is paying off!” I announced, because I was a lying little bastard. “Right through the eye, eh?”

  Awe met me, at that. Even from Vara of all people. I worked at freeing my sword, using the labour as an excuse to hide my face before they noticed how bloody terrified I was by everything. Dragging a foot of steel out of a skull—however battered by time—was easier said than done, however. I ended up needing a boot on the thing’s chest, and even then it took me some seconds. I stumbled away with my gore-spattered weapon and tried not to notice the rancid meat-scent wafting around us.

  “Fucking hell, Kyvaine.” Laryck breathed, staring at me wide-eyed. Will was much the same, though Vara seemed half-over her own shock.

  “What?” I asked, actually a bit surprised they were making such a big deal out of this.

  “I…I thought you were dead.” Laryck croaked. “The way it smacked your head like that, it was such a clean hit I—how are you alive?”

  I realised then that they must not have seen my sword catch the staff and weaken its impact, in their eyes I’d been struck a mortal blow and simply kept my life.

  “Didn’t hurt that much.” I shrugged as I said it, forced a smile and quickly turned. My torch, fortunately, was still lit. I snatched it up fast. “Now, I say we all head back, eh?”

  “Right.” Vara nodded, and the other two nodded along. I took just five steps past them before freezing as the next sight made itself known.

  It wasn’t an undead of course, no. That would be too pleasant. It was several undead, six in all. And each one of them was armed not with a quarterstaff, but with true spears. Their tips were rusted, dented. Mangled by hard use, and unlike the last one these weapons were wielded by creatures bound in armour.

  We hadn’t all been of one mind on entering the dungeon, but we found total agreement in that moment. Not a single one of our group so much as hesitated to turn tail and sprint in the other direction.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The undead were in agreement, too. Because not one of them hesitated to chase us.

  I had the second longest legs, though with my heavy chain shirt I was hard-pressed to outrun any other but Will. Laryck tore on ahead of course, while Vara dragged the fat boy after her. I barely noticed this at the time, far more concerned with saving my own skin than examining the pace of anybody else’s. The corridor, though, was not so long. Laryck smashed into the heavy oak door at the end of it. He was a big man, at a full sprint, and I actually thought he might unhinge the whole damned thing. He didn’t of course, just bounced off it. Then we were trapped.

  Some sort of madness hit me there, and for the second time I turned to face an enemy. Except now it was deliberate.

  To get things clear, I was not being brave. I was being cornered. A rat in the trap, ready to eat my way through whatever needed eating to find freedom.

  Had it been trained men chasing us, they might have coordinated and reached me at the same time. I’d have been fucked against six spears at once—would’ve been fucked against two at once. But it was dumb shambers coming at me now, and the first one came a full yard ahead of the others.

  Which did not, of course, help me much.

  Later in my years, it would become clear to me how disadvantageous any straight conflict between a sword-wielder and a spearman was for the former. The disparity in reach was simply too great, and if, like so many amateurs, you thought to try and slip by the longer weapon, it was a simple matter to draw it back and flick it to one side in adjustment. It could be done of course, but it could never be done consistently. Always your hope lay in an enemy’s mistake more than your own skill.

  Except I’d never fought a spearman, and I didn’t know that. So I charged in like a rutting bull. The shambler had about as many brains as did its hollow-skulled kin slain fifty paces back, so it did not do any of the obvious, killing tricks which would have taken a Hero out of the world. It simply thrust, then seemed rather surprised when the young idiot it tried to skewer smacked its weapon aside and quickly riposted.

  Edged steel found putrid flesh, and the contest was no contest at all. This time it was deliberate when my sword found its mark, running deep into the undead’s neck and sticking. I twisted, grunted and leapt back. As expected, the blade was stuck. But the mass of my body and force of my jump tore it clean out, and half the neck along with it. The shambler dropped like a stringless puppet.

  That left five, but fortunately I had a couple of allies who were at least marginally more intelligent than a mindles undead. Vara moved in first, and surprised me by drawing out a weapon of her own. A woodcutter’s axe, God knew where she’d hidden it, that she brought down hard on a spear just above its head while the weapon was thrust for me. She deflected it, and my own thrust sunk deep into the shambler’s heart.

  A man would’ve been killed by that, but of course an undead has no need for its heart. Before I could so much as draw my weapon back the other two were circling around it to get at me. That was when Will made himself useful, smacking one of them right across the face with his torch and forcing it back a step even as I melted away from the second. My sword flashed up in another scraping parry, and my own torch found the shambler’s unnaturally-gaping maw. It actually lodged in its gob, the burning wood, and remained there to sizzle while the others advanced.

  More spears came for me, and I lost track of what was moving and how. All I knew was backing away, feeling the space dwindle at my back and desperately parrying everything within a yard of my face while the undead shambled on after me, rotting teeth peeking out through split gums. It wasn’t enough, my strength. My speed, my skill. None of it was working an inch. Will took a spear-thrust to the side and fell back, pale and trembling as he seemed to just lose the power to move. Vara stumbled away, fearful and torn between aiding him and helping me hold them back.

  There were four shamblers left, all littered with mortal wounds. Minor ones, to them, and moving without any of the fatigue I was feeling build up. Then Laryck got the door open.

  It screamed, the door. As if it were somehow pained to be forced ajar. None of us minded that of course, we all scrambled for it instantly. Laryck and Vara were slowed trying to haul Will after them, while I was slowed keeping my face to the undead and desperately parrying—not having the space to simply cram myself past my friends to get away first.

  Somehow, I managed it. Not for long, not for any time at all really, but two whole seconds I spent withstanding the storm of metal and wood as it flew for me. Four-on-one, and I fucking lived. It was luck for the most part, circumstances for another. Had I been encircled I’d have died halfway into that interval. But we were in a corridor, so all the thrusts came from one direction. And I denied them just long enough that the path behind me cleared and I could throw myself backwards through the door.

  My landing was not a pretty one, and somehow I almost stuck myself on my own bloody sword. While I was scrambling around to get back up and run, Laryck and Vara were throwing themselves against the door—holding it shut.

  The undead had the advantage of mass, despite their withered bodies, and I could see the slab of wood start turning inwards.

  “Help us!” Vara screamed. Will was still on the ground, moaning and clutching at his side. We’d fallen into some bigger corridor now and I couldn’t see more than ten paces away from us by the light of the torches haphazardly rolling about on the floor. Instinct told me to run, thought told me to stay.

  In the end, it was my innate Heroism that decided my action. After all, a Hero who couldn’t put aside his fears for his own self interest—choosing long-term survival over short term safety—was not a Hero who would live long. I threw my own weight against the door to keep it rammed shut.