They Lizardmen crowded the space like ants around sugar, bodies everywhere, some small and quick, some large and thick with muscle. A couple of hundred at least, maybe more, and that count was only what he could see from this angle.
There could be more under huts, deeper in the trees, more hidden in the river itself, where their eyes and nostrils still watched. Ludwig's fingers tightened on Durandal's grip. Twenty orcs could win fights. Twenty orcs could not win wars without losing too much of themselves.
Turning back, Grath, no Ludwig's small army was reeling for a fight. Most of them will die.
Heavy casualties meant no kingdom. It meant no momentum. It meant he would "become king" by standing over a pile of corpses with no one left to rule. The Tower would love that irony. Ludwig refused to give it the satisfaction.
"You said lizardmen had no king, right?"
"Not that Grath knows of…"
