Deus Necros

The words landed heavier than the sickness below. Ludwig stared over the slope again and understood the implication with a slow, cold clarity.

A stronger poison would have been the easy way.

It would have erased the tribe. But kingship wasn’t measured in how cleanly you could wipe out a settlement. A kingdom needed bodies. A kingdom needed labor. A kingdom needed fear and obedience, yes, but also survivors who could be bent into subjects.

Ludwig thought for a second. Kaiser’s words had grave implications. Doing it the hard way, they could not only defeat the lizardmen but also subjugate them if need be. A kingdom needs its serfs. And if the Lizardmen bowed their heads. Then the orcs will become stronger. Ludwig didn’t like the thought in a moral sense, but morality didn’t win Tower trials. Function did.

“I see, I didn’t think of it that way, that’s good planning,” Ludwig said as he kept a lookout.

Below, the sickness spread in ugly waves. More lizardmen rushed to the river, unable to control their bodies. Some collapsed on the banks, some crawled, some tried to reach water as if water would wash the poison away, instinct overriding logic.

It was chaos without coordination, the worst kind of chaos for defenders. Even the champions, the ones who should have been rallying order, were being reduced to moans and furious retching.

Ludwig watched their numbers shift, watched how many remained upright near weapons, watched which huts were still lit and which had become dark and silent.

And the ruckus woke the Orcs up. The first snore cut off abruptly, followed by a grunt and the scrape of someone sitting up too fast. More heads lifted. Eyes blinked. A few orcs sniffed the air and wrinkled their noses with crude disgust, as if the wind itself had become insulting.

Grath was the first to approach, trying his best to be sneaky about it, but his footsteps still sounded like a charging bull’s. The orc moved with that heavy confidence that made subtlety impossible; every step compressed the earth and cracked small twigs like he wanted the forest to acknowledge him.

“What is going on?”

“They’re having a shitty day,” Ludwig replied without taking his eyes off the camp.

Grath sniffed a bit, “It’s reaching all the way here. That’s a horrible poison, it makes a warrior into a sniveling cub…”

“That’s the plan,” Ludwig looked up, Dawn began breaking.

The sky lightened in slow bands, the darkness thinning into a gray that made shapes sharper and shadows less forgiving.

Dawn was a weapon of timing. The lizardmen had spent the night with their eyes tuned to darkness; the rising light would sting them, bleach details, make them blink and squint at exactly the wrong moment.

And now their bodies were betraying them too. Blinded by the rising sun after having their eyes adapting to the night for all its duration, and unable to handle their own bodies due to the poisoned river. Ludwig’s muscles tightened with that familiar readiness. This was the window.

“Orcs, it’s time, get ready!” Ludwig said as he drew Durandal fully.

The blade cleared its sheath with a clean metallic whisper that sounded too elegant for an orc body holding it.

The sight of steel pulled the orcs into focus immediately; sleep vanished, boredom vanished, replaced by the simple clarity of impending violence. Weapons were grabbed. Axes were lifted. Mud-smeared bodies stood and rolled shoulders like they’d been waiting their whole lives for this single moment.

Gale stood up first, and Kaiser was next: “I’ll remain here and provide supporting fire.”

“I was about to ask you to do that,” Ludwig said.

Kaiser’s role made sense. A supporting caster from high ground could punish any organized resistance without being swallowed in melee.

Ludwig didn’t waste time debating it. The Tower’s scenario wanted kingship. Kings didn’t win by swinging first. Kings won by positioning their pieces correctly.

“What about me?” Grath asked.

“Are you not an Orc?”

“I’m Orc!” Grath said proudly.

“Then get to fighting! CHARGE!” Ludwig howled and jumped down the slope.

The shout ripped through the quiet like a drumbeat. Ludwig launched himself forward, boots sliding immediately on damp grass.

He let himself drop into the descent rather than fight it, body angled, knees bent, using momentum like a tool. The hill became a chute. Wind slapped his face. Mud cracked and flaked off his skin as he moved.

Sliding fast across the hillside and reached the side of the river in a few seconds.

The cold scent of water hit him harder up close, fresh river smell mixed with the sour stink of sickness. The bank was already churned into sludge by panicked lizardmen’s feet, and Ludwig’s boots sank slightly as he hit level ground. He didn’t slow.

The rest of the orcs tried the same; a few of them managed to mimic Ludwig, but a majority flipped, tumbled, and fell on their faces.

The falls were loud, thuds and curses and the wet slap of mud, but the orcs didn’t care. Bruises were nothing compared to the promise of battle. They hit the ground, rolled, and got up with snarls that sounded more excited than hurt.

The shame of the fall did very little to their fighting spirit.

The boulders were slick with river spray and algae. Ludwig took them in quick strides, balancing without thinking, while behind him, orcs stumbled and recovered, using sheer mass to bully their way across rather than finesse.

Below the bridge, the river rushed on, carrying poison downstream with quiet indifference. On the far bank, the settlement was awake now, but awake in the wrong way, awake with panic, bodies hunched, weapons half-grabbed, champions trying to stand tall while their stomachs betrayed them.

“Don’t kill those who are sick, take down anything that resists!” Ludwig howled as he was leading the charge.

He didn’t need to say that, after all, the Orcs would find it dishonorable to kill an unarmed person, so they rushed behind Ludwig, trying to find proper prey.

Pray that can satiate the day they spent waiting and planning. Two things orcs hate the most.