Deus Necros

The lizardmen ran away with all their might, or at least the remaining ones when they saw their kin being slaughtered like pigs in front of a butcher’s cleaver. Their earlier patience evaporated into raw survival, bodies slipping between trunks and underbrush with that reptilian speed that made pursuit a waste of effort.

They hissed as they retreated, more insulted than afraid at first, then properly afraid once they realized fear was the only useful emotion left. Ludwig watched the last of the tails vanish into green shadow and noted the most important detail: none of them tried to regroup. None of them tried to drag a wounded comrade.

Whatever discipline they had came from numbers, not loyalty.

It wasn’t just a losing battle; it was a massacre led by one orc with a freakishly large blade. Gale hadn’t fought like a brute swinging for spectacle. He fought like a guillotine that had learned to move.

The forest floor still vibrated slightly from Oathcarver’s impacts, and the air held that fresh copper scent that made even orc nostrils flare. Broken branches swayed slowly, leaves settling back into place as if the trees were trying to pretend they hadn’t just been used as camouflage a moment ago.

“Grath sees, but can’t believe. Why is it that you are not leader?” Grath asked.

He seemed genuinely confused. The question wasn’t mockery; it was an honest failure of comprehension. In Grath’s world, the one who killed best led.

He had just watched Gale erase an ambush in seconds, and the idea that someone like that would stand behind another was like telling him water could burn.

“To lead,” the Knight King said, “Isn’t merely with strength,” he finalized as he flicked his weapon from blood. “A knight cannot topple a king by itself,” The Knight King said.

He flicked Oathcarver once, sending dark droplets into the grass, and the motion was controlled enough that it looked almost casual.

Ludwig understood what Gale meant immediately. Strength could win fights. It couldn’t build a structure that survived after the fight.

Kaiser understood, too, because he had lived long enough to see empires rot from within. Grath, on the other hand, stared like he was hearing a riddle.

The idiom was lost on Grath, but the important people for whom it was aimed had understood it. Ludwig did not waste time explaining. Explanations were luxuries, and this trial had already made it clear it wasn’t interested in giving luxuries.

“Let’s keep going,” Ludwig said, “We’ll need to find their settlement or your former one.” He said.

He kept his voice low, the kind of low that carried authority without inviting echoes. The lizardmen had fled, but fleeing did not mean blind.

A scout could still be watching. A runner could still be heading back to warn the others. Ludwig didn’t want the settlement to have time to organize before he even saw it.

The group of orcs moved through the forest with intent. Keeping a close watch on the terrain from any hidden scouts or lizardmen, but fortunately, that display of power was all the lizardmen needed to see to realize they were in for big trouble; they didn’t need to leave anyone behind for more information.

That worked out well for Ludwig and his allies.

The trees grew thicker the deeper they went, trunks close enough that Oathcarver would have been awkward to swing if a second ambush came. Ludwig adjusted by keeping Durandal low and ready, relying on sightlines and sound.

Kaiser’s staff tapped lightly against roots when he stepped wrong, and he looked irritated each time, as if the forest itself offended him by existing in his way.

Grath’s men moved with less subtlety, armor and weapons clinking, but their confidence had been lit by Gale’s massacre. Confidence was loud. Ludwig let it be loud only because the enemy had already seen what happened. Fear traveled faster than scouts.

Soon, they arrived at the top of a hill that overlooked the settlement.

The climb was short but steep enough to make the orc bodies feel heavy at the end, that level 100 limitation making legs complain sooner than they should.

Ludwig crouched automatically as the crest came into view, careful not to silhouette himself against the brighter sky. From this height, the wind carried sound and scent better. He listened first, then looked.

Huts, houses, bonfires roasting what looked like pig meat, or maybe orc meat. And Lizardmen. A lot of Lizardmen.

The settlement spread along the river as it had grown there. Smoke rose from multiple fires, steady columns that mixed into a low haze under the canopy’s edge.

The huts were crude but functional, arranged in clusters rather than streets, suggesting they didn’t care about beauty, only proximity and defense.

The lizardmen moved in groups, not wandering alone, scales catching light as they shifted. Even from here, Ludwig could see the difference between idle movement and readiness.

Too many of them carried weapons while doing ordinary tasks. That meant they expected trouble. Or they caused enough trouble to live expecting retaliation.

Ludwig recognized a few creatures among the enemy ranks.

Lizardmen champions, something he fought back in the days of the academy. He almost lost his life, and gained the title that his friends called him by, “Undead Ludwig.”

The memory rose sharp and unpleasant, not heroic, just a reminder of how close death used to be before death became routine.

Champions here were bigger, better armored, and crueler than the rank-and-file he remembered from the academy trial.

He could spot them now by the way they stood, by the crests and bone ornaments, by how other lizardmen shifted aside when they passed. Some had scars that crossed scales like broken pottery lines. Some wore trophies that looked like teeth and finger bones. Champions meant this was not a simple tribe of weaklings squatting in stolen huts.

However, he didn’t smile for long. Especially after the memories of the Black Tower academy, and the betrayal at the hands of Hoyo Drak.

The smile died before it could fully form. He didn’t allow himself to linger on that either. The Tower didn’t care about his grudges.

It cared about his decisions, and right now, his decisions needed to keep his twenty or so orcs alive long enough to matter.

The river that crossed the settlement seemed to be what they mainly used to keep hydrated and close to water. Lizardmen were amphibious creatures. They couldn’t be too far away from the river, or at least a swamp, if they could.

The river was the settlement’s spine. Ludwig could see it glinting between huts, hear it faintly under the crackle of fires when the wind shifted.

Several lizardmen were near the bank, hauling water, washing, or simply lingering in a way that suggested comfort. Their tails occasionally dipped into the current, casual as if the river was a part of their bodies rather than a resource. If they needed water to function properly, then the river wasn’t just useful.

It was leverage.

And leverage could be used if done properly.

Ludwig kept glancing over the settlement and noticed something.

There were just too damn many lizardmen.