Deus Necros

Ludwig began by informing them of what had occurred back in the palace, though he did so carefully, as if weighing each word before allowing it to leave his mouth. He kept the account restrained, trimmed of excess detail, not because the truth was fragile, but because too much of it at once would only lead to arguments, fear, or reckless conclusions. Even with his restraint, the weight of what he shared settled heavily over the deck of the ship.

The desert stretched endlessly around them, dunes rising and falling like frozen waves. Wind scraped against the hull, hissing through metal seams and carrying grains of sand that stung exposed skin. The ship moved steadily forward, yet the atmosphere aboard felt tense, compressed, as though the air itself had grown thicker.

Ludwig spoke of the Queen.

“She is most likely the Lustful Death,” he said. His voice was calm, but not detached. It carried the tired certainty of someone who had already wrestled with disbelief and come out the other side. “A creature as powerful as the Wrathful Death I fought in Solania. Possibly stronger.”

The reaction was immediate.

“That can’t be,” Tull said, his words sharp and unyielding. He turned slightly toward Ludwig, arms folding across his chest, his expression darkening. “I know power when I see it. What she had wasn’t anywhere near that. Not even close to the guardian of the north.”

“Stop calling it that,” Ludwig replied, exhaling slowly. There was frustration in his tone, but also resignation. The title had been spoken for generations, repeated until it became more comfortable than the truth. Even now, after witnessing the Wrathful Death’s cruelty firsthand, they clung to the lie wrapped in reverence.

Despite everything, the name lingered.

“Still,” Ludwig continued, meeting Tull’s gaze, “I’m telling you she is that strong. And I have a feeling the Envious Death is just as dangerous.”

Silence followed, broken only by the grinding of sand beneath the ship’s hull.

“Then why are we heading there?” Tull demanded at last. His voice carried genuine concern now, no longer edged with challenge alone. “There’s no point in going somewhere that puts His Majesty’s life at risk. Not when the enemies you’re describing are comparable to the… Wrathful Death.”

“Do you see me stopping you?” Ludwig asked, tilting his head slightly. His eyes narrowed just enough to make the question feel less rhetorical than it sounded.

Redd shifted his weight, leaning forward with a crooked grin that tried, and failed, to lighten the tension. “Yeah,” he said, glancing between them, “you guys were pretty eager to jump in on his fun.”

“You know exactly what I want to say,” Tull replied, ignoring Redd. “Turn this vessel around. Right now.”

“Tull.”

Alex’s voice cut through the air, sharp and cold, striking harder than the desert wind whipping across the deck. It carried authority, but more than that, it carried finality.

“Do I look like someone who needs to be coddled?”

Tull stiffened. “But Your Majesty—”

“Enough.”

The single word ended the discussion. There was no anger in Alex’s tone, only command.

He turned then, locking eyes with Ludwig. The ship surged forward over the dunes, sand and wind rising to meet them, clawing at Alex’s hair and cloak. The elements seemed determined to strip away his composure, to remind him where he stood. Yet his hair barely stirred, as if something unseen refused to let him appear shaken or diminished.

“How do you know about this… Envious Death?” Alex asked.

Ludwig did not answer immediately. He stared ahead, watching the desert flow past, then inhaled slowly.

“Usually, I’d never reveal my sources,” he said at last. “But fine. Do you know the Witch of the Mare?”

Alex’s brow furrowed. He searched his memory. “The woman in the forest…”

“Seems the royals know more than they let on,” Ludwig muttered, a faint edge creeping into his voice. His gaze never left the horizon. “She told me about a sister of hers. Someone who took many things away from her. Power. Identity. Purpose.” He paused, then added, “That’s the one I need to get rid of.”

He raised his voice sharply.

“Kasim!”

The captain snapped upright as Ludwig lifted a compass toward his face.

“Heave starboard!”

“AYE!” Kasim shouted, his response exaggerated but precise. His hands moved without hesitation, the ship adjusting its course smoothly.

Alex’s eyes followed the motion, then returned to the compass. “What are you looking at?” he asked. “Is that a compass?”

“Yeah.” Ludwig replied as he checked the bottom of the lantern where the vestige of darkness was aiming straight ahead now.

“It doesn’t point north,” Alex said, studying it more closely. “That thing’s broken.”

“To you, maybe,” Ludwig replied quietly. “For me, this is a precious compass.”

The ship continued forward. Behind them, far to the south, the towers of the capital had disappeared entirely, swallowed by distance and dunes alike. Ahead lay nothing but sand, stretching endlessly in every direction. The ship picked up speed, plates humming, engines roaring, until the vibrations traveled through the deck and into their bones.

Then Ludwig shouted, “Lower the anchor! We’re here!”

“Aye!” Kasim replied without missing a beat. “We don’t have an anchor, sir, but lowering the anchor!” He yanked a lever with theatrical flair. The engine cut out abruptly. Metal plates slid from the ship’s sides, grinding against the sand. Friction screamed, and within moments the vessel shuddered to a halt.

Ludwig jumped down first and the rest followed.

“Where is this?” Tull asked, scanning the horizon. There was nothing. No ruins. No markings. No sign that anything had ever existed here.

The Manitou had said north. They had gone north.

“Did you realize you got tricked?” Tull pressed.

Ludwig pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Your noses. Do you smell that?”

Kasim sniffed under his arm and grimaced. “That might be me. Haven’t showered in three days.” He chuckled weakly, then froze. His expression twisted. His nostrils flared. Saliva pooled in his mouth as his body convulsed violently, bending him forward. “That is not me… blergh!”

“What’s wrong with you?” Tull demanded, stepping back instinctively.

“Stop,” Alex said sharply. He had already brought his hand to his nose, his face tightening. “I smell it too. The Yellow River. It’s here.”

The scent finally reached Tull. His stomach lurched violently as the odor crashed into him. It was decay layered upon decay. Rotting bodies. Decomposing fish. Wet, stagnant filth. Beneath it all was something worse, something wrong, like fermented cheese trapped inside the bloated corpse of an animal left to stew under the desert sun for days.

“What in the bloody hell is that?” Kasim gasped, wiping his mouth. “To make a sailor throw up from smell alone… this is unbearable.”

“That’s not flesh from fresh graves…” Ludwig said grimly. “And it’s not fish on a peer left to dry. It’s the smell of rotting souls.” He glanced at Kasim. “It’s far stronger than what most people can handle. Take the ship somewhere safe. From here on, things will get ugly.”

Ludwig reached for Durandal.

The blade slid free with a low, resonant hum. As he raised it, a red shimmer crawled over his body, Wrath gathering around him like heat rising from a forge. The air thickened, pressure building until even breathing felt heavier.

He aimed the sword at empty air.

Then just before he would swing, space itself tore apart before them, the desert splitting open like a wound. Beyond it lay a vision of hell forced into the heart of the sands, waiting.