Three days into tracking, ScuzNails froze mid-step.

  His ears swiveled independent of each other, amber eyes going wide. The half-dog's nose twitched in rapid-fire succession, processing scents Roar'Z couldn't detect even with orc senses. One webbed paw lifted, trembling.

  "Chief-friend," ScuzNails whispered, voice cracking. "Chief-friend must see. Must see now."

  Roar'Z's hand moved to Beculum automatically. The blade hung heavy at his side, damaged weight a constant reminder of borrowed time. His palms, wrapped in GroTor's medicinal bandages, sent no sensation through the fabric. Just abstract pressure against dead flesh.

  Three days of tracking through mountains. Three days of ScuzNails ranging ahead while I coordinated forces back at camp. Whatever he found, it terrified him enough to wait for me.

  "Show me," Roar'Z said, voice rougher than it had been a week ago. Each word scraped through his damaged throat like broken glass.

  ScuzNails led him upward through rocky terrain, moving with the practiced silence of someone who'd survived by not being noticed. The half-dog's anxiety manifested in his tail, tucked so tight against his body it nearly disappeared beneath his travel-stained cloak. His talismans, bone and copper pieces strung on leather cord, clicked together despite his attempts at stealth.

  The mountain path narrowed. Sparse vegetation gave way to bare stone. Above them, peaks cut sharp silhouettes against late afternoon sky. Below, somewhere in the valleys, camp continued its preparations. Warriors sharpening blades. Shamans treating sick children. Normal activity for orcs at war.

  They don't know yet. Don't know what ScuzNails found. What I'm about to see.

  The path ended at a cliff edge.

  ScuzNails dropped to all fours, belly-crawling the final distance. Roar'Z followed his lead, ignoring the protest from his healing ribs. Pain had become background noise lately, constant companion to exhaustion and determination.

  They reached the edge together. Roar'Z positioned himself behind natural cover, a boulder shaped by ancient winds. Then he looked down.

  The sight stole his breath.

  A ravine stretched below them, carved by water over centuries. Steep walls provided natural concealment on three sides. The fourth side, where they observed from, offered clear vantage of the entire valley floor. Perfect defensive position.

  Perfect trap.

  Humans stood arranged in a perfect circle at the ravine's center. Forty-seven of them, by Roar'Z's rapid count. Each one chained to a central platform constructed from dark wood and iron. The chains were long enough to allow limited movement but not escape. Not even close to escape.

  "Forty-seven," ScuzNails breathed beside him. "ScuzNails counted three times. Three-three times to be sure-sure."

  Around each human, zombies stood in clusters. Not shambling. Not wandering. Standing at perfect attention like soldiers awaiting orders. Roar'Z counted seven zombies per human on average, though some humans commanded as few as three, others as many as ten.

  Over two hundred dead-things, all controlled. All waiting.

  The tactical implications crashed through his strategic mind like falling stones. This wasn't a horde that could be fought with conventional tactics. This was precision. This was military coordination on a scale that turned his understanding of Ruby's operations inside out.

  A robed figure moved between the chained humans, tall and deliberately paced. When the figure touched one person's head, pausing for long moments, that person's zombies activated. Previously active zombies went still, dormant. Like switching which fire receives fuel.

  They're not mindless. They're being actively directed. Each human is a channel for Ruby's will.

  "Each human controlling three-seven dead-things," ScuzNails whispered, each word squeezed out past obvious dread. "Over two hundred zombies total. Just standing. Waiting. Like soldiers-soldiers at attention."

  Roar'Z settled into concealment, preparing for extended observation. His wrapped hands rested on stone. Cold stone, his eyes told him. His nerves reported only abstract pressure. The disconnect had become familiar. Expected, even.

  I'm becoming stranger to my own body. Dead hands, failing legs, scorched throat. But the mind remains sharp. Has to remain sharp.

  They watched.

  An hour passed. The sun descended toward the western horizon, casting long shadows across the ravine.

  The robed figure paused at each human in sequence. Hand on head. Moments of concentration, visible even from this distance as a faint purple glow. Then movement to the next human while the previous one's zombies continued their assigned tasks. Patrol patterns. Guard rotations. Simulated combat drills.

  Managing multiple units through sequential activation. Military efficiency in nightmare form.

  Roar'Z studied the robed figure's movement pattern, committing it to memory. Height: tall for a human, maybe six feet. Build: lean beneath the robe. Movement: confident, practiced, no wasted motion. This wasn't someone forced into service. This was a believer. Someone who'd chosen Ruby's side and embraced the role.

  Not all of Ruby's servants are victims. Some are willing participants in genocide.

  The observation chilled him more than the industrial necromancy. Evil that believed itself righteous was harder to stop than evil that looked in a mirror and grinned at what it saw.

  ScuzNails shifted beside him, tail twitching with barely suppressed anxiety. "Chief-friend sees pattern-pattern?"

  "I see it," Roar'Z confirmed, voice barely audible. "Coordinator manages them in sequence. Active control over multiple units. When coordinator focuses on one set, others maintain last command."

  "Smart-smart zombies," ScuzNails added, his usual third-person speech pattern slipping under stress. "They fight like warriors, not monsters."

  That's the horror of it. Ruby's turned death itself into a weapon of precision.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Another hour passed. Shadows lengthened. The ravine's western wall blocked direct sunlight, plunging the valley floor into premature twilight. Roar'Z's eyes adjusted, focusing on individual humans in the circle.

  They were in terrible condition. Skin stretched tight over visible bones. Eyes rolled back, showing mostly whites. Clothing hung in tatters. Some swayed in their chains despite standing still. Others had collapsed entirely, held upright only by the restraints.

  Glowing sigils carved into exposed skin, fresh and infected. The marks pulsed in rhythm with zombie movements, magical connection made visible through violated flesh.

  They don't speak. Don't react to each other. Just breathe and bleed and channel Ruby's will.

  One woman, positioned on the circle's northeastern edge, started convulsing. Her body shook violently in the chains, foam appearing at the corners of her mouth. Skin already gray deepened to ash-color.

  "She dying-dying, Chief-friend," ScuzNails whined low in his throat, ears flat against his skull.

  Roar'Z watched, unable to intervene from this distance. Unable to intervene even if closer, surrounded by two hundred zombies and their coordinator. Watching was all he could offer. Witnessing her death. Remembering it.

  So others know. So her end serves purpose.

  The woman's convulsions intensified. Final spasms that arched her back despite the chains. Then sudden stillness. Her head dropped forward, chin against chest. Dead weight hanging in restraints.

  Immediately, her zombie unit went wild.

  Seven corpses that had stood at perfect attention broke formation. They attacked everything nearby, feral and mindless. Clawing at each other. Lunging at the nearest human anchor. Trying to tear free from whatever invisible leash had held them.

  Other zombie units remained perfectly controlled. Standing at attention despite the chaos erupting beside them. Only the dead woman's seven lost cohesion.

  The robed coordinator gestured sharply. Other zombie units turned on the feral ones. Systematic destruction followed. Combat efficient, coordinated, brutal. Within minutes, the woman's seven zombies lay properly destroyed, heads crushed or separated from bodies.

  The other units returned to perfect stillness. The dead woman's body remained hanging in chains. No ceremony. No acknowledgment of her passing. Just casualty in industrial process.

  She was fuel. Burned out and discarded.

  ScuzNails made a sound Roar'Z had never heard from him before. Not quite whine, not quite growl. Pure distress vocalized.

  "ScuzNails," Roar'Z said quietly, "you watched this for two days?"

  The half-dog nodded, amber eyes haunted. "Couldn't leave, Chief-friend. Had to understand pattern-pattern. Had to see how system-system works." His voice broke. "The humans. Skin and bones. Eyes rolled back. Glowing sigils carved in skin, fresh-fresh and infected."

  He paused, struggling to continue. Roar'Z placed his wrapped hand on ScuzNails' shoulder. Rare gesture of comfort from the war chief. The half-dog had earned it. Watching this horror alone for two days required courage Roar'Z hadn't known he possessed.

  "Chief-friend calls war council," Roar'Z confirmed. His voice emerged rough, grinding through damaged throat.

  He was about to share horror with his chiefs. About to make them understand what they fought against.

  Roar'Z ducked through the command tent's entrance, ScuzNails following close behind. Inside, GroTor already waited, as if the old shaman had sensed what approached. Ancient eyes studied Roar'Z's expression, then ScuzNails' haunted posture.

  "Call them," GroTor said simply. "Call them all."

  ***

  The chiefs arrived within the hour. Seven hardened warriors who'd survived wars that should have killed them. FirRam. GratGraw. ZarDul. GashGul. Others whose clans had answered Roar'Z's call.

  ScuzNails unrolled his hide map. His claws trembled against the leather.

  "ScuzNails found where zombies come from." His voice cracked on the words. "Not from corpses. From living people."

  He described the ravine. The chains. The humans hanging like meat in a slaughterhouse. The children among them. The woman who'd died while he watched, foam at her mouth, body convulsing until it simply stopped.

  Silence held the tent like a held breath.

  "Uses them like batteries," GroTor said quietly, understanding dawning in his ancient eyes. "Burns them out while bodies last."

  "Why humans?" GratGraw's massive frame shifted forward. "Why not use dead-things?"

  "Because dead can't sustain living magic." GroTor's jaw tightened. "Need soul still attached to flesh. Need suffering, fear, everything that makes creature alive."

  The pieces fell into place with hideous precision.

  "The poison." GroTor's voice barely registered above the fire's crackle. "The crimson sickness spreading through our children. Not meant to kill them."

  "Meant to prepare them." Roar'Z finished the thought that made his tusks ache. "Weaken bodies. Make vulnerable."

  GashGul stood slowly, his massive frame trembling. "He was going to harvest our children." His voice came out flat, toneless. "Turn them into fuel for dead-things."

  The war council erupted. Chiefs surged to their feet, voices rising in cacophony of rage. Weapons appeared in hands.

  "We march NOW!" GratGraw slammed his fist on the table.

  "BROTHERS!" Roar'Z's bellow cut through chaos. "Sit. DOWN."

  The command forced compliance. Chiefs sank back, though fury still rolled off them in waves.

  "Tomorrow," Roar'Z said, voice iron. "We plan. Tonight, we remember what we're fighting for."

  The chiefs dispersed into darkness. None spoke. Words weren't enough for what they'd learned.

  ***

  Dawn brought the chiefs back to the command tent. Rage had cooled overnight into something colder. More useful.

  ScuzNails stood at the map table. Not crouching at the circle's edge. Standing where warriors stood.

  "Can't just attack." His claw traced positions with steady precision. "Command post in ravine. One entrance, steep walls. Easy to defend."

  "So we do nothing?" GratGraw's scarred fingers twitched toward his weapon.

  "No." ScuzNails met his eyes without flinching. "We attack smart."

  He tapped three locations. "Simultaneous assault from multiple angles. Priority isn't killing zombies." His claw circled the human figures marked on his map. "Priority is disrupting anchor links."

  "Anchor links?" Chief ZarDul's voice carried skepticism.

  "The humans in chains. They're conduits." ScuzNails pulled out another hide marked with symbols. "Each one controls a group of dead-things. Kill the conduit—"

  "All zombies connected to them fall," GroTor finished. "Instantly."

  "ScuzNails watched it happen." The half-dog's voice steadied with the telling. "When woman died, her zombies went feral. Two hundred others stayed controlled. Only hers collapsed."

  The chiefs exchanged glances. This changed everything.

  Roar'Z studied ScuzNails. The trembling creature who'd once cowered at every raised voice now commanded a war table. "You lead scout teams."

  The tent went silent.

  ZarDul struck his chest once. "This scout lacks proper bloodline. Clan Rotem questions this choice."

  "That scout survived Crimson Sanctum's arena." Roar'Z let steel enter his voice. "Survived my rage. Survived Ruby's dead-things and horrors that would break most warriors." He straightened to his full height. "He survived because he thinks. Sees patterns where we see chaos."

  GroTor's hand came to rest on Roar'Z's shoulder. "Boy's proven himself. Not through strength of arm, but strength of mind. Both have place in war."

  "Besides." Roar'Z showed his tusks. "Any warrior with problems following ScuzNails can explain their objection to me. Personally."

  No one spoke.

  ScuzNails stood frozen, amber eyes wide. When words finally came, they emerged barely above a whisper.

  "ScuzNails won't let Chief-friend down."

  "I know." Roar'Z turned back to the map. "Now. Show us everything."

  * * *

  ScuzNails walked through camp alone, still processing what had happened.

  Lead scout teams. Him. The arena-thing. The pathetic-creature they'd once thrown scraps to.

  A young orc child toddled toward him between the tents. Warriors nearby shifted, ready to intervene. Arena beast. Ruby's creation. Unpredictable.

  But the child showed no fear. Small hands reached upward. A gurgling sound that meant only one thing: Pick me up.

  ScuzNails froze. His eyes found Roar'Z across the camp. The war chief nodded once.

  He knelt slowly. Lifted the boy with claws that had killed but never held anything so fragile. The child laughed, small fingers finding the bone talismans and tugging with delighted curiosity.

  The child's mother appeared, breathing hard. She started to reach for him, then stopped. Her eyes met ScuzNails'.

  "Thank you." Her voice carried across the camp. "For stopping the poison. For saving my baby before Ruby could take him."

  ScuzNails carefully returned the child. His claws never came close to flesh.

  "ScuzNails couldn't let them hurt little ones." His voice came out rough. "Any of them."

  Warriors who'd dismissed him watched with different eyes now. They'd seen him fight. Survive. Think tactically.

  But this was something else. This was seeing past the beast to the person underneath.

  If this story is working for you, a follow really helps it grow.

  If you're enjoying the story, a ? rating helps more than you know.

  https://www.royalroad.com/amazon/B0G2D295BN ---