"Wait! Just wait!" he continued to tell them, trying to be reassuring, but a tinge of terror creeping into his voice. he must control them, he thought. he was responsible for them.
a few steps closer now, the rasping monsters were. emaciated, grey flesh hung on cold bones, blood did not flow through their veins, but stagnated in it. Alexander counted 6, but knew more lurked in the shadows. he watched his neighbors band together, and quietly weighed their chances in his mind.
his reverie was broken by a shout of surprise from the left flank. he spun to see a ghoul, arms raised to neck level, charging into 4 pitchforks pointed at it's chest.
"they're doing it wrong..." he thought to himself, as the farmers held the flailing beast back with their forks, stabbing its chest and neck repeatedly.
a flashback to the most important thing his father had taught him. the priests had taught him that while the heart is the wellspring of the body, the soul resides in the brain, and so, the dark magic that fills the dead with unrest does, too. his father had trained him, splitting old, dry gourds filled with soft wax. with sword, axe, hammer, and pike, when they were rolling across the ground or swinging from a rope, he split a thousand baskets, cabbages, pumpkins, and blocks of wood.
but he had never split a skull, and neither had any of the farmers. but their desperation was rapidly rising, terror was filling their hearts, and the others would not be able to resist looking back, exposing their flanks...