Deus Necros

The lizardmen hesitated for a brief second. Their mother was captured, their settlement is burning, their clansmen were dead, dying, and wishing for death. The hesitation wasn’t bravery. It was the last reflex of a tribe that had always believed numbers and territory would eventually save them.

But reality has always been cruel to the hopeful.

They stared at the scythe under their broodmother’s neck, at the orcs standing in mud and dawn light like they belonged there, and at the smoke rising from huts that had been “home” an hour ago.

The air tasted of ash and bile, and the riverbank still ran with panicked footprints and stains that had nothing to do with water.

There was no victory here to find, no retaliation to start, and no hope of flipping the tables. The orcs used their brains when all they had before was brawn.

That was the part that broke the lizardmen more than the blade.

Orcs were supposed to charge and die loudly.

Orcs were supposed to make mistakes you could punish.

Instead, the orcs had waited, poisoned the river, attacked at dawn, and used the queen as leverage.

It was wrong in the way an old enemy suddenly learning new tricks felt wrong.

This wasn’t what they were used to; this wasn’t the orc tribes they had warred against before.

This was new, and this was dangerous.

Their instincts had been trained on a pattern that no longer applied, and a trained instinct failing was worse than fear.

It left you standing still while the world moved through you.

The closest champion turned its head around, trying to find one, anyone who was still willing to fight, but not a single one of his kin had it in them.

The ones who could still stand were shaking, not only from pain but from the humiliation of being reduced to bodies that couldn’t even control themselves.

The ones who still had weapons in hand were staring at Ludwig like the scythe might cut simply because he blinked.

They were fully and completely beaten. One-sidedly at that, too.

The first clang of metal rang from that champion as he let go of his weapon, then a second, then a third.

Until the whole settlement was on its knees.

Spears hit mud. Scimitars fell with dull thuds. A shield slid down a slope and stopped against a rock. The sound of surrender multiplied until it became a rhythm, and the lizardmen’s posture changed all at once.

Shoulders dropping, heads lowering, tails slackening. Even those who didn’t kneel immediately stopped moving like fighters and started moving like survivors.

The orcs won. They have lost, and the god of victory raised the banner of the enemy.

There was nothing left for them but the mercy of their captors.

The Mercy of Orcs.

“FOR THE BLOOD GOD!” Grath howled as he raised his greataxe high. And a chorus of cheers followed afterward.

“FOR THE BLOOD GOD!” The shout rolled across the ruined settlement, loud enough that it felt like it could shake the remaining smoke out of the air.

Orc voices were built for war cries; even celebration sounded like a threat. A few lizardmen flinched at the noise on instinct, then remembered they were already beaten and flinching didn’t matter.

The orcs have never won this way before, and they knew it. Battle, war, and fights always ended up in a procession for those who died in glory. But today felt different. They were standing in an enemy settlement with their numbers intact, and that was not something their culture prepared them for.

There was no mound of orc corpses to mourn, no heroic last stand to sing about, no “glory” in dying well. Instead, there was the unfamiliar feeling of having gained something.

There was no glory in death today, but that meant one more battle to seek said glory has been obtained. All thanks to the ’smart’ orc that became their chief.

Ludwig didn’t smile at that. He didn’t need their admiration. He needed their obedience to stay stable long enough to become useful.

“Good, tie the champions up, get the other lizardmen in line.” Ludwig barked orders. And they were followed to a tee.

Orcs moved immediately, not delicately, but efficiently. Ropes drawn, knots tied tight, weapons confiscated and piled. The champions were the first priority, because champions were where rebellion lived.

Even sick, even humiliated, a champion could rally others with pride.

The first to get bunched up were the champion lizardmen, though many of them were still soiling themselves from the sickness.

The normal lizardmen were the other line. The smell of it drifted through the air, and the orcs wrinkled their noses but didn’t stop working.

Mud and blood didn’t bother them. This kind of weakness did so because it reminded them that bodies were fragile, no matter how many scales you had.

“What do you want with usss?” one of the champions hissed.

“What do you think? Serve, or die. There is no third choice.”

The words weren’t shouted. Ludwig didn’t need volume. The certainty was the weapon. He kept Durandal close, scythe still braced under the broodmother’s neck, reminding them that resistance had an immediate cost.

The champions looked at each other, then at their queen. She was still unconscious.”

“What? Are you waiting for her response? It doesn’t matter if she refuses; she dies, it’s to each their own, choose,” Ludwig said.

He watched their eyes as he said it, watched the calculation break apart under pressure. A queen was supposed to be the anchor of a tribe. Ludwig had turned her into a hostage instead. That shift destroyed their hierarchy in real time.

“I…” one of the champions said, holding a barf, “Serve.”

The word came out like a confession. Pride tried to fight it, but the body betrayed pride, and the smell of bile turned courage into practicality.

The rest, who were hesitant, soon broke down.

“We serve…”

[You have managed to convince the Green Scale Lizardman tribe to follow you. You have reached one of the requirements for becoming a King.]

[You now have 322 members under you.]

“Good,” Ludwig said, “Get me Kaiser, fast.” Kael ordered one of the Orcs, and they nodded and rushed out of the settlement toward the hill.

The Tower’s notification was not praise. It was bookkeeping. Ludwig felt the scenario tighten around him like a collar being fastened.

King requirements. Members under you. Numbers. This wasn’t just a battle anymore. It was an administration of conquest.

“We need to make sure that you’re all loyal first,” Ludwig said.

“How are you planning that?” Gale said.

“Steel is good to make people bow their heads, but you still need magic to stop them from ever raising it again.”

Kaiser soon arrived at their side, “What is it, Ludwig?”

“I need slave contracts.”

“Hmm, seals, I see… I can do that,” he looked at the tribe.

“Would applying seals on them serve any value? Won’t they be even more hostile?” Gale asked.

“In a normal setting, yes, but there is a small difference here,” Ludwig said as he moved forward. “We don’t trust you,” he said loudly to everyone here.

He made sure his voice carried across the lines. Not yelling…projecting. The lizardmen’s eyes followed him, some resentful, some exhausted, most simply trying to understand what kind of conqueror spoke like this instead of pretending benevolence.

“And I’m attempting to be king of these lands.” He added.

“I can’t trust people who aren’t my people, so you’ll all be turned into slaves. You won’t be harmed, you won’t be thrown into battles that will kill you, and you won’t be abused. But you have to fight for the tribe if we need you. Serve for five battles and survive, and you shall be set free!”

The promise was structured, not kind. Ludwig didn’t offer freedom because he cared about their suffering. He offered it because deadlines and conditions made compliance easier to swallow. Five battles. Survive. Then freedom. It gave them a future they could cling to, and clinging reduced rebellion.

The lizardmen looked at each other, “Are you going to be a Warmonger?” One of the champions said.

“Isn’t that how you used to live?”

“We’ll lose lives…”

“Did I lose any lives conquering you?” Ludwig asked.

The Lizardmen looked at each other, realizing the truth of his statement. He came in with twenty Orcs; they are still twenty Orcs. That fact hung heavier than any threat. It meant Ludwig didn’t spend his troops carelessly. It meant serving him might actually be safer than serving their old instincts.

“Submit,” Ludwig said.

The lizardmen drooped their heads. They didn’t have a choice. And with the promise of freedom later, reasons to battle and reject died down. The settlement’s noise softened into something grim and resigned: ropes tightening, bodies shifting, the occasional cough, the crackle of dying fires.

“Then, let’s start,” Kaiser said as he held his hand forward, dark magic swirling within it.