Deus Necros

The light had not yet faded when the screams began.

The Queen’s form was engulfed in the aftermath of detonation, flame and bone erupting in unison, the stench of scorched ichor thick in the air, choking even the stone around them. Blinding flashes of pale necrotic fire had rolled outward from her in pulsing waves, and every single one of Ludwig’s undead, thirty-two in total, had gone off like a choir of ruptured drums. Their bodies exploded mid-latch, bones turned to jagged shrapnel, rib cages and rusted weapons cleaving through bark and rot as if splitting paper drenched in oil. Death Echo did its part, repeating the incantation without mercy. What had started as fire was echoed with greater force, louder, more unhinged, a second detonation overlapping the first in a violent symphony of obliteration.

First came the shockwave to where Ludwig used his Stone Wall, then came the flames that burst outward and everywhere.

However, none of it touched Ludwig. The roar of the explosion was loud but then, stillness.

The Queen was still upright, though just barely. Her figure was alight. Roots snapped like cords of dry sinew beneath her. Her flesh, if one could even call it that, peeled and cracked in scorched layers, embers pulsing at the torn seams of her neck and limbs. Screams no longer came from her throat but through her whole body, the vibration of her pain rumbling through the very bones of the cave. The hollow of the grotto rang with a tension so thick it buzzed in the teeth. But even in that stillness, there was no peace.

Ludwig staggered a step backward, smoke rolling off his shoulders. His body still shimmered with the veil of false humanity, but beneath the illusion his skin felt split and cooked, after all dispite the wall, the flames still managed to singe him, but thankfully Celine remained out of harm’s way.

His mana was strained to ribbons. And then, among the settling debris, something moved.

A dull scrape across stone.

Ludwig turned his gaze toward it and sighed. Just barely, just within the ring of scorched dirt and splintered bark, was one of his summons. Or what remained of it. A half-body, no legs, spine trailing like a snapped flag behind it. The top half of a skeleton, its empty sockets still locked on the Queen. It had failed to reach her. Maybe it had fallen during the initial climb or been severed by her flailing limbs. Whatever the cause, the spell had missed it. It lay there twitching, one claw-like hand still reaching, as if it refused to accept its failure.

Ludwig walked to it without hurry. The heat still radiated off the ground, his boots crunching on blackened root ash. He planted one foot beside the skeletal torso and looked down.

“Well, guess you’re late to the party,” he muttered. Then, without a word more, he jabbed Oathcarver beneath its ribs, lifting the pathetic thing on the flat of the blade.

He grunted and turned his shoulders, one clean motion of practiced strength, and hurled the broken summon like a discus. The creature soared, an awkward arc of bones and brittle pieces spinning mid-air toward the still-flaming Queen.

That was the moment the far side of the grotto cracked.

A ripple of divine energy flooded the chamber as light burst through the roots, cutting clean lines into the gloom. The cave groaned in protest. Footsteps struck the stone, firm, armored, precise. Cloaks whipped in the windless air, charged with holy blessing. A voice rang out, too loud, too certain.

“By His Light, she is here!”

Mot entered first. Small, silent, and impossibly strange. His bare feet made no sound on the stone. Behind him, paladins in gleaming armor filtered through the ruptured wall, blades drawn, their hands pulsing with radiance. And at their head, tall and imperious in crimson and gold, strode the Cardinal.

Time slowed.

To them, the vision must have seemed clear. A creature of darkness, twisting and shrieking in hellish flame, stood at the center. And before it, a lone figure, human in form, surrounded by smoke and ruin, hurling a shrieking undead at the monster. An enemy of evil, one man waging war on the grotesque.

“How valiant,” one of the paladins breathed, raising his sword high.

“Looks like the young man from before had done some of our work for us,” another muttered.

Atop his perch, the werewolf chuckled. The sound was low, rumbling with ancient disdain. He crossed one leg over the other and rested his chin on a hand, watching the parade of righteousness with a sneer that never touched his mouth.

“Idiots,” he said to no one in particular.

Ludwig blinked. He hadn’t expected this. Not yet. He took a shallow breath, the illusion over his flesh holding firm. But beneath the slime-slick glamour, his body tensed. The chain holding Celine trembled once in his hand. She was waking.

Not all the way yet. But enough.

Her limbs began to twitch against the bindings. Her breath came shallow and fast. Her fangs, barely visible between parted lips, pulsed with faint color. The paladins hadn’t seen her yet. They were too focused on the Queen. That wouldn’t last.

He had maybe seconds.

One wrong movement, and she would leap at him. Or worse, go for one of them. Either would be a disaster. He glanced at the werewolf again, hoping for… something. A word. A gesture. But the creature only smiled wider, clearly entertained.

Not that he was wanting of his help, but maybe the paladins were stupid enough to antagonize him, after all, they already mistook Ludwig for being a hero, what if they made another tiny mistake?

If Ludwig tried to flee now, the Order would never let him go. He looked like a survivor, yes. Maybe even a hero in their eyes. But once they caught wind of what he truly was, once their magic brushed his skin… purification would come next. In holy fire.

He couldn’t let them see Celine. Couldn’t let her bite him. Couldn’t let the Order hold him back. Couldn’t let her go, since she might just eat half of them…

And worst of all, the Queen wasn’t dead yet. Her limbs were twitching. Her root system was reaching. He had only bought time.

A flicker of movement in the Queen’s chest. Her headless form began to shift.

And Ludwig, still holding Celine in one arm, still soaked in the remnants of fire and smoke, felt the quiet dread of it all swell inside him like bile.

He whispered, “All I’m missing is someone saying, this can’t get any worse…”