Deus Necros

The red orc army began its move, and from the looks of it, the leader wasn’t completely gone in the head. It was smart enough to delegate tasks and give orders. That wasn’t good.

That was the problem with tyrants who still had brains: they didn’t waste troops for drama. They used bodies like tools and saved the rest for later. Ludwig watched the formation and felt a cold respect he didn’t want to admit.

He didn’t send the full charge, no, he sent only a portion, about a third of his troops.

The front mass peeled off like a blade being drawn from a sheath, three hundred or more red shapes pushing forward while the rest stayed behind the river line, waiting. Ludwig’s mouth tightened. This meant they were being tested, not simply crushed.

This was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing as it will be less devastating of a charge than a full army collapse, but cursed as it means that it renders most of Ludwig’s tactics obsolete in one assault.

If the whole army came, the river trap would be catastrophic. Too many bodies, too much chaos, too much drowning. But a third meant the Red King could probe, learn, and adapt. Survive this push, and they’d face a smarter second push. Lose here, and they’d never see a second. Though with a Thousand Strong, losing was a very difficult option.

“Proceed as planned!” Ludwig said.

The command snapped through the line and anchored everyone to motion. No hesitation. No debates. Plans died the moment people started improvising out of fear.

The group of orcs lined up alongside Ludwig, a wall of orcs with weapons ready, while behind them and spread to the side were the ogres, and the trolls were left in the back, for later use.

The orcs braced shoulder-to-shoulder, tusks bared, gripping axes and crude blades like they were gripping sanity.

Ogres took staggered positions behind and to the flanks, ready to plug gaps and strike where the line buckled. Trolls shifted in the rear, restless and hungry, their weight held back like a club you didn’t swing until it mattered. Ludwig didn’t waste them on the first collision. He needed them intact for the moment the Red King committed more of his mass.

“You sure you don’t want the trolls, the bigger ones, to take this charge head on…” Damra said as he saw the incoming charge of the three hundred and some Red Orcs.

Damra’s eyes tracked the flood, calculating impact. Three hundred red bodies moving together weren’t a “charge” so much as a rolling disaster. Even a strong wall could crack under that.

They didn’t charge; more like, they flooded forward. Trampling reeds, crushing rocks, and rumbling the earth, and that was only a third.

The sound hit first, heavy footfalls and the deep drumming of mass, the kind that made your teeth feel slightly loose. Reeds flattened under them. Stones shifted and popped. The ground itself vibrated, not like an earthquake, but like something too heavy for the world’s patience. Their breathing came in harsh snorts and roars, the kind of noise made by bodies that believed nothing could stop them.

“Nah, no one is meeting that train wreck head-on. We’ll be stomped to death if we do that,” Ludwig said.

He kept his voice calm, but his eyes were sharp. You didn’t stop a flood by standing in it. You redirected it, broke it into smaller streams, and forced it to lose momentum.

Damra was confused; he seemed to have missed the part where Ludwig had a non-imaginary rampart or walls to stop a charge.

He couldn’t even continue on that train of thought as he saw what happened soon after the red orcs charged up.

He didn’t have time to ask either. The first red bodies were already at the water.

Just as the first Red Orcs touched the water, a couple of them who were waist-deep in the river were simply pulled under.

It happened fast, too fast for the eye to catch cleanly. One moment, a red orc’s torso was visible, arms chopping at water, and the next he was gone as if the river had opened its mouth. A splash, a brief struggle, and only ripples remained.

Then more, and more.

Hands, webbed, clawed, practiced, dragged bodies down. The lizardmen didn’t thrash. They didn’t surface to roar. They worked like predators who had hunted here their whole lives, using water as a weapon and the enemy’s weight as an anchor. Red orcs flailed, tried to swing into the river, but their blows hit nothing but water and panic.

The lizardmen’s ability to fight along the water was unparalleled here in these planes.

The other red Orcs noticed and, in their rage, began swatting at the water, fighting nothing and hitting nothing. While the great majority continued moving through the river, as it owed them money.

Some tried to stomp the shallows. Some tried to stab downward with crude spears. Their anger was wasted. Water made fools out of strength. Meanwhile, the rest pushed forward anyway, unwilling to slow because momentum was their religion. That stubbornness killed more of them than any blade.

More of the Orcs were pulled under while the rest crossed, and began running up the reeds toward the base of the ogre mountain.

Wet boots hit mud. Mud sucked at the ankles. Reeds slapped at faces. They climbed out of the river, coughing and snarling, some already weakened by poison, others simply furious, eyes locked on Ludwig’s line like they could erase the humiliation by reaching flesh.

A few flying objects shot from between the bushes. Landing squarely on the orcs’ necks and chests.

Thin darts. Almost invisible in flight. The only warning was the faint hiss of air and the tiny impacts that didn’t look like much, until bodies started failing.

The orcs that were hit continued moving like nothing was wrong, for a few steps, before they began falling to the ground.

Spasming and convulsing on themselves.

The Red Army was bleeding.