Deus Necros

The next two days passed in the rhythm of hardship and silence.

They crossed hills where nothing but twisted trees clung to crumbling cliffs. Valleys where the mist pooled like old ghosts too tired to rise. The Bastos region seemed to fight their every step — a land that did not forget, nor forgive.

Day and night interchanged as they moved, while the scenery seemed to change visibly from ugly to bad to bearable. Thankfully, at least, there were no Reavers hunting them here.

By the time they broke through the last of the hills, the March was far behind them. The oppressive gloom lifted, if only slightly. Before them stretched a small forested region, dark but not cursed. The air smelled of damp wood instead of blood.

It felt almost like breathing again.

Robin had slipped away from the group earlier, silent as a shadow dissolving into morning mist. Half an hour had passed since.

“He’s taking his sweet time…” Melisande muttered, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, her foot tapping a nervous rhythm into the dirt.

Her voice tried for casual, but the crease between her brows gave her away.

“We wouldn’t have had this issue if we’d taken the mountain pass,” Gorak grunted. His voice was like the low rumble of distant thunder. Annoyance clear in his voice, and the massive backpack on him didn’t help the situation whatsoever.

“We’re not equipped for that,” Timur shot back, arms folded. “Last time, we had numbers. Now?” He shook his head. “The mountain paths are swarming with bandits. We’d be gutted before breakfast.”

Gorak grunted again, unconvinced.

He shifted his massive battleaxe on his back, the weapon heavy enough that any normal man would have needed two hands just to lift it.

“But,” Gorak said, turning his grim stare to Ludwig, “why worry about bandits when we have him?”

He jabbed a thick finger toward Ludwig. Ludwig raised an eye as he looked at Gorak’s reverence. He wasn’t like that day one…

Timur opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again with a sigh.

Melisande moved faster.

She practically threw herself against Ludwig’s side, hugging his arm lightly, her bright expression an exaggerated pout.

“You can’t expect Davon to handle everything for us,” she said, her voice half-teasing, half-serious. “Besides, he’s good at killing monsters…” She glanced up at Ludwig, her amber eyes glinting, “…not humans.”

Timur cleared his throat, suddenly sheepish. “She’s right, Davon. Sorry we keep throwing you into the worst of it.”

“It’s alright,” Ludwig replied, his tone easy, unbothered. His gaze drifted ahead. “Your weapons aren’t meant for the kind of beasts we faced.”

He nodded toward the massive tusks strapped together at the side of the path—a grim trophy from the thing they’d brought down two nights before. A mammoth-like creature, eight-legged, faster than a cheetah, and far, far hungrier.

For them, something like that would be a nightmare with their few numbers, but for Oathcarver, it was nothing but a giant slab of meat on a chopping block.

The group fell silent for a moment, each replaying the brutal memory.

The bushes ahead rustled sharply.

Before the others could react, Ludwig moved—fluid, instinctive.

Oathcarver gleamed into existence, its heavy black blade almost singing as it split the air—drawn in a single smooth motion and pointed directly forward.

Only to find Robin’s face staring down the edge of the sword.

Robin blinked once, the faintest twitch of a frown crossing his usually unreadable face.

He gulped—subtle, but Ludwig caught it—and lifted both hands.

“Imperial road ahead,” Robin said coolly, as if he didn’t have a blade three inches from his nose.

A beat passed.

“Mind… putting that away?” he added.

Ludwig blinked once, his expression neutral, then placed Oathcarver in his inventory without a word. The blade faded into the ether with a low hum.

Robin exhaled through his nose, adjusting his cloak like nothing had happened.

“What took you so long?” Melisande demanded, stepping forward, her arms akimbo.

Robin shrugged lightly. “Saw tracks. Several.”

“Tracks?” Ludwig asked, tilting his head slightly.

Robin nodded. “Monsters… or worse.”

Timur stiffened at that.

“What’s worse than monsters?” Ludwig asked, genuine curiosity threading his voice.

Melisande answered, her voice solemn now—too solemn for her usually vibrant manner.

“Humans.”

Ludwig’s lips pressed into a thin line. He understood.

And before he could speak further—

“Oh-ho! Look what we’ve got here!”

A loud, boisterous voice rang out, reverberating down the slope like a war drum.

The party’s heads snapped upward.

At the edge of a small ravine ahead, standing tall with a crude saber slung over his shoulder, a man grinned down at them. His vest hung open, revealing a hairy chest and thick, corded muscles. His shorts barely reached his knees—wildly inappropriate for the cold, which suggested he was either insane or supremely confident.

Others emerged behind him.

From the bushes.

From the slopes.

From the rear.

They surrounded the party like jackals.

“Will ya look at that, lads!” the leader laughed, swinging his saber lazily. “That barbarian’s haulin’ a mountain’s worth of loot!”

“Aye!” another barked, sliding down the slope in a messy tumble. He landed heavily, boots thudding into the dirt with all the grace of a kicked sack of meat. “The boss’s gonna eat well tonight!”

Another figure swaggered forward, eyeing Melisande with a leer that turned Ludwig’s stomach.

“Look at the chick, boys. She’s worth more than the loot. Might have some fun tonight.”

A fourth voice cut in, sounding more sober, more serious.

“Boss said no touching women.”

“Bah! The boss ain’t here, is he?”

Timur narrowed his eyes. His hand went reflexively to his sword.

Ludwig tilted his head, glancing at Timur with the faintest hint of dry humor.

“What in the third-rate bandit encounter is this?” Ludwig muttered.

Timur grunted, unsheathing his blade with a smooth, weary motion. “Told you. Worse than monsters.”

The bandits didn’t notice—or didn’t care—how calm their prey was.

How quiet Gorak had grown.

How still Robin had become.

Or how Ludwig’s eyes had sharpened—cold, precise, hungry.

The slaughter had already begun.

They just hadn’t realized it yet.