He was seriously considering asking someone if they remembered, but as another wave of mindless corpses advanced toward the cleric, only to fall atop the bodies of the last ones, he realized it wasn't the time.
So he stayed crouched at the front wall of the church, no matter how much he wanted to wade into the fray.
He wanted to give his arm another go. The sword strapped to it, he meant. He'd convinced them to help him strap a sword to his stump, but he'd gotten to swing it, what? Once? Twice? And then, years ago now, he'd been forced to stop and sit and wait while the bloody cleric patiently shouted a bunch of zombies to death.
It felt so cowardly to sit behind this wall and sulk in the middle of a fight. He wasn't a coward, he reminded himself. After all, there wasn't really any fight to be had. If he'd tried, it would've been a repeat of the scene at the general store. No glory to be had in fighting things that lay down before you kill them.
And that business with the rats, well. That hadn't been cowardice either. He just didn't like rats.
Also there was the spell. They'd put a spell on him and the dead couldn't see him. So he wasn't to hit any of them or they'd be able to see him again. Right, right. He drummed on his forehead with his fingers to help him remember this.
It didn't help much. It was distracting. Felt strange. He looked down at where the fingers he would've preferred to use should've been. There was only the tip of a sword.
After a moment, he shrugged. Good enough.
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