Deus Necros

Once the troops were outside the tree line, they began spreading according to Ludwig’s instructions.

The mountain’s shadow fell behind them the moment they crossed the last line of twisted trunks and thorned undergrowth.

Out here, the world opened wide, reed fields, wet soil, the river cutting a long silver-gray line across the plain, and beyond it the low swell of land where the Red Tusks had stopped to rest.

The air tasted damp and plant-bitter, and the breeze had nothing to break it anymore; it ran straight across the water and pressed cold against skin and armor seams. Ludwig didn’t like open ground.

Open ground meant numbers mattered more than cleverness, and right now the enemy owned numbers like they owned cruelty.

The goblins went low, rushed through the reeds and low bushes. Mixing and camouflaging within, while the Lizardmen dove toward the water. Leaving nothing but their eyes out to see.

The goblins disappeared almost immediately, small bodies swallowed by green and brown, sliding into mud channels and reed shadows like they’d always belonged there.

Ludwig watched them for a heartbeat and saw the discipline in their movement: no unnecessary noise, no flashy bravado, just survival and purpose. In the river, the lizardmen didn’t so much “dive” as melt into their element. The water accepted them, hiding their torsos and tails, leaving only the ridges of their brows and the glint of eyes at the surface. To anyone looking from afar, it would seem like nothing but ripples and weeds. To the Red Tusks, it would become a grave.

The orcs and ogres were followed by the fifteen or so trolls, the race with the fewest numbers. Yet the most intimidating builds.

The trolls lumbered last, thick-limbed and heavy, their footsteps dull thumps that made reeds shiver. Even when they tried to be quiet, the land complained under them. Ogres moved with more control, big, yes, but not clumsy. Orcs were the loudest even when they weren’t speaking, armor clacking, axes shifting, breath snorting. Ludwig kept them together where their bulk could be directed instead of scattered into stupid heroics. A troll in the wrong place was a collapsed wall; an orc in the wrong place was a dead one.

Ludwig, Gale and Damra speared the march where the rest of the ogres and orcs mixed together and behind.

They took the front without needing to say it. Gale’s presence steadied the line like a tower shield you couldn’t see.

Damra walked with that grim readiness of a man who’d stopped pretending this was a game of cycles. Ludwig kept slightly ahead, not because he wanted glory, but because if someone had to be seen first, it might as well be the one who could shape the fight with mana. He kept Durandal close, feeling the familiar weight at his side like a promise he could still keep even at level 100.

The total number was close to three hundred. A far cry from the opposing one thousand strong.

It wasn’t just a numerical gap. It was the kind of gap you felt in your throat when you imagined a flood hitting a dam. Three hundred could hold, if the ground helped them, if the enemy split, if poison and disruption did their work.

A thousand could erase mistakes. A thousand could afford to be stupid and still win. Ludwig didn’t have that luxury.

Even from far away, you could see their form, behind the river line.

Red bodies clustered like a stain on the plain. Some sat. Some stood. Some moved in restless loops like predators waiting for the moment to be told they could eat. The river between them looked small from this distance, too small to matter, until they realized what waited under its surface.

Ludwig looked at the lizardmen and trusted that they wouldn’t drink from the water they were swimming in. Although Kaiser said that it won’t affect those who drink it in small quantities, Ludwig didn’t want to take the risk. The river was poisoned after all.

Trust was an uncomfortable word for Ludwig, but he used it anyway. He didn’t need lizardmen getting sloppy because their mouths dried out. He didn’t need anyone “testing” the poison out of curiosity. Even if Kaiser claimed safety in small amounts, Ludwig had learned the hard way that “should be fine” and “is fine” were two different worlds.

“I really don’t like being forced to fight in the open like this,” Damra said.

Damra’s eyes stayed on the far bank as he spoke, jaw tight, one hand resting on his weapon as if he could already feel the collision coming. The open plain made his shoulders tense in a way the mountain never had. Walls and wards had given them a sense of control. Out here, control was borrowed and could be taken back in an instant.

“I know,” Ludwig replied.

He didn’t soften it, didn’t lie. The truth was obvious. An open-field stand against a larger force was how you got turned into a cautionary story. Ludwig’s only comfort was that this wasn’t truly “open.” The river was a barrier. The reeds were covered. And he had a mage’s hands, clumsy as they were in this body, still capable of shaping the battlefield into something less suicidal.

He wasn’t a fool; meeting an army head-on in the open, especially outnumbered, was how you get crushed in the grinder. Especially the same army that crushed the Yellow Mountain tribe, who had the elevation advantage and a chokehold. But the difference between those guys and this place was that this place had a mage.

And the difference between Ludwig and most kings was that he didn’t need to pretend he enjoyed it. He just needed to make it work.

“You don’t have to worry about that. Let’s just survive the day for now. Our goal is to live long enough for Kaiser to bring the orcs and lizardmen from the camp to help.”

He said it like a practical order, not reassurance. Survive the day. That was the mission. Not win. Not crush. Just hold until night and reinforcements. He didn’t mention what held them together even more than tactics: fear of what the Red King would do if they failed.

“You think a hundred or so lizardmen and a bunch of orcs can help against that,” Dedal said as he pointed with his head.

Dedal’s skepticism wasn’t cowardice. It was the sober assessment of someone who’d seen what happened to Yellow Mountain in minutes. He didn’t point with his hand; he didn’t need to. The mass on the far side spoke for itself, a red tide waiting to spill over.

There was movement from the Red Army.

Not a full shift. Just a change in rhythm. Bodies rising. Lines forming. The kind of motion that made your skin tighten because it meant a decision had been made.

“Of course, any bit helps, let’s focus up now,” Ludwig said, though inwardly he too doubted the confidence Kaiser had when he said that all Ludwig needed was to survive until the night. But right now, none of them had any other choice but to do that.

Doubt didn’t matter if it didn’t change the plan. Ludwig kept his face neutral and his hands steady. If he showed uncertainty now, it would spread through the line like sickness. He’d rather hold the fear himself than let it become a communal panic.