Deus Necros

“We’ll go with you,” the prince said.

Frowning, Ludwig asked, “And why would you do something so troublesome?” His tone was flat rather than sharp, the kind of question that measured another man’s resolve without wasting breath on argument.

“We’re in the same boat. In case you forgot. The country is being attacked by demons and foes of both the empire and the kingdom of the sand, and having us there will make it easier to mediate things.”

Ludwig rubbed the ridge of his nose with the back of a knuckle, the gesture brief, almost weary. “I don’t want to babysit you, your highness. You might lose your life, and that isn’t very safe for any of us here…”

“Don’t worry, I have Tull with me,” the prince said confidently.

Ludwig’s gaze slid to the man named Tull. For a passerby in a marketplace, Tull would be invisible: travel-stained clothes, calm eyes, a stance that wasted neither energy nor attention. But to anyone who had ever weighed men by how they stood in a storm, the quiet around him rang. The shoulders set to accept force, the breath that stayed even when the room pressed in, the way a hand hung near the hilt not from nerves but from long habit, those were the signs that made veterans say little and give him wide street.

“Fine,” Ludwig said at last. He did not soften the word. The prince’s eccentric manner was not going to be pushed aside by a warning, and the sooner he saw the true enemy, the sooner his appetite for risk would dry up. It was better to let the man walk to the edge and look over than to argue him away from it.

Ludwig turned. “I’ll head out then,” he said.

“Do you have an idea where to go?” Tull asked, eyes steady, not challenging, simply wanting to pace beside the plan.

“I have my ways,” Ludwig replied. He took two steps and stopped, half-turning. “Redd, what are you doing there. Come.”

“Damn, do I have a choice in the matter?”

“Not much. I also need to know a few things,” Ludwig said, already moving.

They left the throne room together, the hush of the great doors closing settling over their backs. Along the corridor the palace guards watched them pass with faces set like carved stone. More than a few eyes lingered on the prince, and the way those eyes did not widen told enough: word had already threaded through the palace that a son of the empire stood under the Sultan’s roof. The king’s command to hold their tongues had been heard. Duty and fear, pride and prudence, kept the hall quiet. Another rumor in the wrong ear would bring the empire down on the city like a storm at sea.

“What’s the matter now?” Redd asked as their steps found the rhythm of the outer passageways.

“Me? No, it’s you,” Ludwig said. “What the hell are you doing here in the west?”

“Ah, long story,” Redd answered, and began reciting the same account he had already given the prince: the slave shackle, the den, the stench of poppy, the counterfeit face, the way the shadows had moved like knives in a dream.

Ludwig cast the prince a brief, cutting glance when Redd finished. “Quite a way to reward your heroes. Someone who risked literal limbs in a fight to secure the safety of the people was branded and exiled instead of rewarded.”

“I didn’t have much say in the matter,” the prince said. “Not to mention I only became knowledgeable of the information yesterday.”

“Brat,” Tull said, the single word a warning bell. “You’ll speak with respect to his majesty from now on, or I’ll break that jaw of yours.”

Ludwig stopped, turned fully to face him. His eyes were calm, but the calm had teeth. “I respect one’s dedication to their prince. Especially if he is a strong person.”

The air trembled. From Ludwig’s skin a baleful aura rose like heat off iron, quiet and absolute, a pressure that tasted of old hatred and the kind of destruction that did not need to shout to promise ruin. “But don’t you dare think that I’ll simply bow down my head to you. You might be strong, but I doubt you can handle me when I’m angry.”

The words ended, and with them the aura. The corridor remembered its own temperature. Tull did not take a step back. He did not let the breath hitch that pride invites when danger leans close. He merely shifted half a shoe to stand more squarely between Ludwig and the prince, body making the kind of promise he would not dress up with talk. There was no bravado in it. He laid his life down in the space and did not ask anyone to clap for it.

It was rude. It was admirable. It was useful.

Ludwig smiled without showing teeth and turned. “Let’s go,” he said, and they moved off, past veiled alcoves and painted vaults, toward the inner gates.

“By the way,” Ludwig asked Redd as the light grew brighter toward the exit, “what brings you here? At first I thought you got caught or captured by the sand palace.”

“Ah, we were chasing after you.”

“Me?” Ludwig frowned.

“Someone that looks like you,” the prince said. “Took your appearance and was causing a lot of problems in the sand kingdom…”

“Ah. How did that go?”

“Took about ten special guards to pin him down,” Redd said. “An order from above came to bring him alive instead… I don’t know why.”

“I see.” Ludwig’s brow tightened for a heartbeat, then smoothed. “I need to check that person out.”

“Why? Is there a reason?” the prince asked.

“I just have a feeling he might be related to what we have to deal with,” Ludwig said.

“I find that difficult to believe…” Tull said, not to be contrary, but because a good blade tests the grain before leaning on it.

“I’ve been given full rights to assess and command how this operation goes,” Ludwig answered. “If you’re not willing to follow then at least don’t slow us down.”

“Calm down, Tull,” the prince said. “Let’s hear him out. I also wanted to meet this fake… Ludwig.”

A guard posted along the hallway coughed, a small sound that still found them. He lifted his chin to point downward. “Catacombs. That bastard killed my uncle.”

Ludwig inclined his head to the man, not to comfort but to say he had heard. Then, to the guard: “Any way I can meet the chamberlain?”

“Please give me a moment. I’ll bring him to you.”

The guard left at a clipped pace. The quiet hung a little lower after him, weighted with the memory of the word uncle. Soon the chamberlain came, the same immaculate lines, the same careful hands folded as if to keep the palace from wrinkling.

“Sirs, may I inquire on what services I can offer?”

“Take us to the catacombs.”

“Cata…” The chamberlain blinked once. “Sir, you mean the prison? The word catacomb is only used by those of little knowledge of what is truly down there…”

“Sure,” Ludwig said. “I just need to see the prisoner that you caught.”

“Ah… is that also part of the investigation?”

“And am I supposed to answer that?” Ludwig’s face did not change.

“My apologies, sir. I’ll lead the way,” the chamberlain replied, and turned back the way he had come, steps neither hurried nor slow, simply the exact pace at which doors opened for him.

They reached a thick-banded metal door watched by several guards whose eyes had been trained not to wander. The chamberlain did not announce himself so much as arrive; the guards saw, straightened, and pulled the bolts. The iron moved with a long, low groan, and air from the lower ways slid up: cooler, close, carrying dust, dry stone, and the faint tang of metal kept too long without sun.

The stairs began polished and even, then surrendered their polish to age. Smooth blocks gave way to steps that had been carved and recarved by different hands across years, the kind of stone that teaches ankles to place themselves. Light pooled in small, stubborn globes along the walls, mage lights that did their duty without warmth. Their pale glow left corners for the imagination to fill.

They went down until the palace was something above them rather than around them. At the foot, an arched corridor ran long and straight, the ceiling low enough to press conversation down to a murmur. Cells faced the passage in pairs, iron-barred mouths set into stone, each gap hooded in shadow. The guards here did not have the bright polish of the upper halls. They wore the kind of alert that does not impress visitors, the patient, bone-deep alert that keeps a count and keeps it true. Footsteps passed in measured turns. Keys whispered on rings.

Ludwig let his gaze move and then settle. The prisoners were not the wreckage one expects when the word dungeon is spoken aloud. No gaunt cheeks clung to bone. No open wounds begged the air. Bread and water, at least, had been given on time. Cuffs and the inked curve of the slave’s mark told the other part of the story. They were bound. They were owned.

And yet. The faces. The eyes. What should have lived there did not. It was as if the wind had blown through them and taken the flame out, leaving only the wick. Bodies sat, and shifted, and blinked. But the rhythm of a person moving himself through the world was missing. This was the shuffling of habit. This was instinct with the lights out.

Ludwig stepped to one set of bars and studied the man inside. The man stared past him with the blankness of a wall.

[Akrad Useef]

Level: 1

Race: Human.

Health: 100/100

Status Effect: {Sapped} {Soulless} {Walking Husk}

All of the vitality of this person was sucked dry. Alongside it, thought and will were drawn out. What remains is a body that moves because a body remembers, not because a man chooses.

“Well…” Ludwig said, the word thin with surprise he did not bother to hide. He looked along the row again, at the identical quiet in other faces. “This was not what I expected.”